


As Much Power As A Word

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Caretaking, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Fingering, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pining, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Quest fic, Reunions, Romance, Smut, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Dorian hears the word 'kadan', he thinks it's a name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Be So Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a Dorian/Bull fic where the B-plot ran away with me.
> 
> The title is an Emily Dickinson quote: "I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine."
> 
> The tag for polyamory is between secondary original characters, not established DA ones.
> 
> Warning for minor mentions of abuse/torture in this chapter.

“ **A world where it is safe to love is a world where it is safe to live.” - Serena Anderlini-D'Onofrio**

Dorian would never admit it, but despite having camped there in the months before he'd joined the Inquisition and hating every moment of those cold, solitary nights, he had come to appreciate the predictability of the Hinterlands. The terrain was largely manageable, the temperatures more consistent than other regions, and the wildlife by and large wasn't interested in eating them. There had been demon-commanded wolves, but they'd dealt with that some months ago, and the bears usually gave them a wide berth. There was also still a dragon south-east of Redcliffe village, but the Inquisitor had promised this excursion wasn't dragon-related – after all, Bull would never have missed a dragon hunt - and they'd seen no sign of it.

They had, however, seen signs of Venatori. It was so far south that whatever they were up to could not be good, or they were incredibly stupid and would come to harm under their own steam long before the Inquisition forces caught up to them. As much as he hoped it was the latter, they had yet to find any evidence of hilariously dead Venatori.

“Scouts west of here picked up a trail off a recent camp. They're not trying that hard to be inconspicuous.” Scout Harding was briefing Cadash around the fire blazing against the chill of the morning. Cassandra was perches on a log close to the fire nursing a bowl of something steaming, and Sera seemed to be sharing her breakfast with the horses nearby. In the haze of waking, he wondered if camping was made a degree less soul-sucking by the company he kept.

“Morning, sleepy britches!” Sera called over her shoulder, and he smirked and waved in her direction. He might have been the last to rise, but it was still an early start, and nobody seemed in a rush to move from the fire until there was more sunlight to heat their path. As it was, the woods around them seemed to be creaking and groaning, rising from their own slumber.

He served himself up a bowl of whatever unidentifiable brown stew was simmering over the fire, and slipped onto the log next to Cassandra. It was satisfying, even if all the flavour came from fats instead of delicate spices, but it was fuel they would need for the day ahead. The alliance of Redcliffe farm meant the food while in the Hinterlands was some of the best and most consistent, and he no longer felt the need to bemoan it with any real enthusiasm.

Eventually Cadash joined them on a nearby felled tree stump with her own bowl of stew, her helmet between her feet, and her long sideburns hanging curly and loose from their usual braids.

“The Venatori are up to something,” she said, before shovelling a large spoonful of meat and vegetables into her mouth.

“They're not here sightseeing, then?” Dorian asked, heaving an exaggerated sigh.

She waggled her spoon in his direction while she chewed, waiting to be able to speak. It made him smile, and when she swallowed her mouth twitched with something of a smile in return.

“Harding thinks they're tracking someone, but she's sure they're not after one of our scouts.”

“We would do well to find whoever the Venatori are so interested in before they do,” Cassandra said, voicing the general opinion of those present, to round of nods and murmured agreements.

“Harding sent scouts ahead to see if they can find out anything.” Cadash toed at her helmet, rocking it against the grass. “We'll follow the Venatori on foot.”

“Slow day, then.” Sera had returned, leaned into the Inquisitor's space and carelessly dunked a large piece of bread into her stew. Dorian pulled a face behind his spoon at her manners, nose wrinkling; glancing sideways, he could see Cassandra sporting a similar look at the thought of Sera doing that to her bowl. But the Inquisitor just smiled fondly at her, lifting her hand to lick off a splash of stew Sera had dripped on her. The woman had the patience of a saint, and Dorian would not begrudge her it, considering how many times he'd tested that same patience.

“As long as they don't spot us, it should be an easy day,” she agreed. “Don't you think we're due one? Just don't tell the rest of them this was basically a pleasure trip.”

They laughed easily around the fire, each digging into their food and then preparing themselves to leave camp as the sunlight reached them, dispelling the last of the morning chill. The ground was still damp, and Dorian knew the hem of his robe was getting sodden with it, but airing this grievance to the group didn't feel a priority when spirits were so high. The light caught the dragonbone of the Inquisitor's armour in a way that made it glow gold-green, gold-bue, gold-red, depending on the angle of the curve in the sun. It was a strange material, 'tricksy', Sera had once called it, because it did not catch the light in the way metals did, didn't create a glint that could be spotted by a sharp-eyed scout from half a mile away. Good for their purpose, Dorian mused, wet grass swishing under foot.

Sera and Cadash headed up the party the front, both of them sharp-eyed and soft-footed, with Dorian and Cassandra walking behind, mindful of their surroundings. With so much vegetation, it required differentiating between the local wildlife going about its usual business, and something that might be more sinister. The sun had reached high enough to warm them through by the time anything of interest happened; they'd paused so Sera could perch high up on a cluster of rocks, trying to spot the Venatori party far in the distance, trees making the task harder.

“At least we have the high ground for now,” Cassandra said, peering up at Sera. Their Inquisitor was out of sight, but likely looking for another vantage point. Dorian put his staff on a patch of rock and leant his weight on it, having already made the mistake of not taking note of the ground underfoot and receiving a staff several inches deep in mud for his trouble. The grip was still caked in it, but he'd decided it would dry and crumble away, as finding a rag to clean it would mean Sera would be ready to supply a dirty joke about him polishing his staff, her efforts possibly doubled to make up for The Iron Bull not being present to contribute.

“Oi, fussy boots,” Sera called, and Dorian looked up towards her without even a question for who she was addressing. “Can you scramble up here?”

“Why?” he asked, already scoping out the rock and the path up that would offer the most dignified ascent.

“Just come.”

With a put-upon sigh, Dorian hoisted himself up onto the rock towards her perch. He was not nearly as sprightly as the elf, but limber enough to scale the outcrop without too much hassle, coming to stand next to her. From here, vast swathes of the land below could be seen, where great hills didn't block the view. Turning back, he could even just about make out the spot they'd camped the night before.

She pointed out across the top of the forest. “Is that sneaky?” Dorian's eyes followed her gesture towards woodland some miles away. If she'd brought him up onto the rock for her own amusement, she'd have surely pushed him off again or something equally childish by now, so he continued to look where she was pointing.

After a moment he caught what she had: a strange disturbance in the treetops, distorting the leaves with strange refracting light. It was too subtle to be a rift, hard to see at this distance.

“That's magic, yes. Was it there when you first looked, or did it appear?”

“Think it was there before. Got more obvious as I looked, but dunno if it's really changed.”

They both watched the spot for another few minutes, and Dorian paid attention to way the distortion moved, undulated, but didn't fade.

“You need a line of sight to keep something like that going,” he said. “Someone is there. It could be a barrier.”

Sera was pulling a face, and it was clear that she was curious but didn't want to directly ask about magic. Cassandra, from her place on the ground below them had obviously understood enough from their conversation.

“Could be..?”

“If it's that high, it's been cast up.” He scanned the area around the disturbance, looking for other signs of magic. “A barrier is strongest when you learn to cast a dome, only as high as you need it, but it's not an easy technique to master. A barrier thrown up by a novice, a self-trained mage or even someone under extreme duress tends to be higher than needed, and expends too much energy. I doubt it's the Venatori.”

A distant but unmistakeable crackle of lightning made Sera start, and they both saw the edges of white electricity break against the distortion amongst the trees.

“ _That_ would be the Venatori,” he amended.

“Then they have found who they were seeking,” Cassandra said. Sera and Dorian made their way quickly down from the rock, feet barely on ground again when an out of breath Cadash appeared in a puff of smoke that fell and dissipated around her feet.

“We need to go fast.” Cadash took deep breaths, likely preparing hersel for more running. “The Venatori must've chased whoever they're after. Must be at least one mage, there's spell damage everywhere ahead.”

“They'll be focused on their target,” Cassandra said. “We've no need to be so careful to catch up.”

“Right.” Cadash nodded, straightening. “Let's go.”

He should rightly no longer be amazed at how fast and agile their stocky dwarf leader was, but he still marvelled at it as they jogged behind her through spell-wrecked woodland, following the winding path and the markers of conflict. Small fires burned but did not catch in the dampness, lighting-struck bark crinkled away from trees, and ice-covered boulders began to thaw. He had to be impressed with Cassandra as well, who had no problem keeping up in full armour. It was lighter than it looked, but she also carried a large sword and a big shield strapped to her back. Vaguely, as the muscles of his legs burnt familiarly with the effort of sustained movement, he wondered how effortlessly she could lift him.

Soon the destruction became more apparent, bigger fires and huge chunks of spell-cast ice, and there were arrows embedded in the trees. Cadash drew her daggers, and everyone prepared themselves, and as they rounded a patch of trees and caught sight of two figures, Dorian was whirling his staff to throw up a barrier even as Cadash yelled for one, and the blast of icy wind aimed at them curved around the magical wall, the largest projectiles disintergrating, the force of it interrupted.

“Stop!” Cadash yelled as their vision cleared enough to be able to tell they were certainly no Venatori. “We don't want to fight.”

The elf who had cast the ice spell at them was bleeding heavily from a cut to her shoulder, but perhaps that they _also_ looked so unlike Venatori made her lower her arms out of her offensive stance. Dorian could not see a staff anywhere, and realised the messy barrier they had seen could be explained by not being able to use a staff to channel power.

Behind her was a qunari with short, crooked horns that pointed backwards, clutching a dagger and holding her arm gingerly to her chest. She lowered the dagger but did not sheath it, and Dorian dropped the forcefield.

“No speak well,” she said in fractured common, giving a shake of her head.

To his surprise, Cadash returned words he was unfamiliar with, but by the qunari's look must have been passable Qunlat. They exchanged words slowly, Cadash pausing and erring over her choice, but the qunari and the elf had both relaxed considerably.

Cassandra was watching the exchange carefully, a hand on the hilt of her sword, and Sera kept stealing glances at the brown-skinned elf mage. After a moment, Sera flicked her hand in the other elf's direction, and for a split second he thought she was going to notch an arrow and shoot her, but instead her hand formed into rapid shapes. The other elf looked surprised, but returned a series of one-handed shapes to her. Sera, who was neither a fan of other elves or of mages, was smiling at her.

“Sera, what're you-” He gestured to her hand.

“It's common, with your hands,” she told him impatiently.

He nodded. “Right. So she's- deaf?”

Sera glared at him. “She can hear you fine. She understands common speak enough. She just can't talk, innit?”

“Ah.” He looked at the considerable scarring over the elf mage's lips, at the large scar on her neck, and he realised what he'd missed at first glance.

“Bas saarebas?” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. The elf still flinched, and the qunari's shoulders squared. It seemed his demeanour was non-threatening enough, because the elf nodded at him.

“What's that?” Sera piped up.

“Mages under the Qun.” He tried to keep his tone free of the bitter inflection that came with thinking about that particular nightmare. “They leash and mask their mages. Sometimes they sew their mouths shut or cut into their throats to silence them. Not usually other races, but-”

He gestured at the elf, and she nodded again.

“Okay,” Cadash said, addressing the party, “my Qunlat isn't great, but Issala,” she gestured at the qunari, then toward the elf, “and Deer-”

“Fawn,” Sera said. She signed something to the group at large, one part of which involved raising her hand to her temple, as if to indicate a horn. “Baby deer. Fawn.”

Fawn nodded her agreement of Sera's correction.

“Sorry,” Cadash said, “Issala and Fawn were travelling with another qunari.”

“Kadan,” Issala supplied.

“They fled the Qun, and have been travelling south. The Venatori have been been stalking them for months, since they crossed from Ostwick. They caught up with them here, and they took her. Seven or eight of them.”

“Why are they after them?” Cassandra asked.

“They're not sure, I don't think,” Cadash said. “They freed Fawn, so they know they have someone after them. The Qun's version of Templars.”

“Worse,” Dorian couldn't help saying, “Arvaarad. If they catch Fawn, they'll kill her.”

“They think the Venatori have already killed the ones that were trying to bring them back,” Cadash went on. “Going after a Qun agent makes sense if they want to take a political prisoner, or torture them for information. If they couldn't take them alive, maybe they'd go after whoever they were pursuing.”

“Your friend was definitely taken alive?” Dorian asked.

Issala nodded. “Kadan.” She touched two fingers to her lips and then the same hand to the middle of her chest.

“Well, that explains part of why they left,” Dorian said, a stir of something low in his belly. “The Qun discourages romantic interpersonal relationships.”

Fawn signed at him, and he paid attention to her even though he didn't understand what she was saying. Sera obliged with a summary.

“Romance is selfish, so 'discourages' is the wrong word. It doesn't exist in the Qun-thing. Is that why they freed you? They love you? Both of them?”

Fawn smiled softly, easing her hip against Issala's thigh. The qunari slipped her arm around her, lowered her mouth to kiss the top of her head.

“We are going to help, yes?” Cassandra said, looking at the Inqusitor. Cadash nodded, then spoke in Qunlat to Issala. The woman grinned, eyes crinkling.

“They'll come with us, even if they have to fall back. We shouldn't waste time.”

Fawn raised her hand to her shoulder, pressing his fingers along the wound, leaving green light in their wake. Briefly, Dorian considered how strange it was for a mage under the Qun to know healing magic. She wiped away the excess blood from around the crooked but magically sealed tear in her flesh, wincing as she lifted her pack onto her shoulders.

They kept pace well, despite both carrying heavy packs – Issala carried the missing qunari's pack as well as her own – and both injured and travel-worn. Cadash was conversing in fractured Qunlat with Issala, apparently making the best conversation she could from the basics of the language she knew, conversation pausing often as they stopped to consider their direction. He always knew there was more to discover about Cadash's Carta connections, and apparently a passible fluency in Qunlar was one of them. Sera and Fawn's keen eyes were trained on their path ahead, some way ahead of the group.

“I'm surprised Sera is tolerating her,” Dorian remarked aloud to Cassandra, would was walking briskly in step beside him. “She's not much a fan of fellow elves, certainly not of strange mages.”

“Perhaps not,” Cassandra said considerately, “but did you really expect for Sera to turn up her nose at a girl who is mute, bleeding, and just survived an ambush?”

“No.” he shook his head, feeling badly for his doubt. “You're right. If listening to her talk about that Red Jenny stuff has taught me anything, it's that the little people matter. Her words,” he added, when Cassandra's face turned towards disapproval. “Not an insult.”

“Are you alright, Dorian?” Her face had softened somewhat, disapproval morphing into concern that just creased her brow.

“Oh, yes.” He waved his hand. “It's just strange to be tracking Venatori shits this far south. Ones that seem to have lost their damn minds. How did eight well-trained Venatori not butcher those two? That elf must throw magic like an old god to come out of it with only a flesh wound.”

“It would seem they grabbed the one they could, and fled. If they have been tracking them for so long, kept up all this time, it is likely they are run just as ragged. If they are desperate, they may not go far.”

“Which bodes ill for the qunari they have,” Dorian said, careful that his voice did not carry to the pair in front, even if she did not speak much common. “They'll try to extract something as quickly as possible. Even stupid people can be adept at torture.”

“Let us not speak of such things yet.” It was a chide, but there was worry in her face as she turned to concentrate on the road.

It was not hard to follow their trail. The captive they had was obviously bound, but not unconscious, because there was carelessly broken undergrowth and footprints from boots shoved too-hard into the earth that any of them could have picked up on, even if they were no ranger.

The sun had reached high into the sky, the day now a warm one as they slowed their pace in a rocky ravine. It was the perfect place for there to be a cave to seek refuge in, or to find a spot for some quick torture.

They heard confirmation that they were close before they saw it; a great echoing wail of pain from within the open mouth in a rock face.

Issala gasped, drawing her dagger. “Kadan!” Cadash signalled to her to wait, and even with the desperate look in her eyes, she nodded.

“Cassandra, hit them hard,” Cadash said. “Dorian, cover Issala and Cassandra as best you can. Fawn, you can do the same, but stay back. Without a staff, you've got nothing to defend up close with. Sera, stay out of their line of fire and keep them busy, or pinned, or distracted. Issala will go for Kadan, and I'll back her up.”

In a shimmer of light, she was gone underneath the strange alchemy of her cloak, and the faintest silhouette of their dwarf Inquisitor disappeared entirely as they entered the cave. The Venatori within were not expecting company, if their fire and cooking food was anything to go by, clearly unaware they were being tracked by a well-armed group. Two were dead before the yelling even began, one to an arrow through the neck and the other to Cassandra's sword.

The cave was cramped, and within seconds it was consumed with vying magic, crackles of heat and light and the sound of quick-forming ice. The Venatori were well armoured, and Dorian could see spells bouncing off the resistant material of breastplates and pauldrons, so he tried to go for the spaces between. He couldn't see Cadash anywhere amongst the fray, or the great form of any qunari, so he could only assure there was a chamber further on they'd forgone the commotion for.

When the floor was littered with corpses and only one Venatori was left standing, Fawn leapt like a cat across two bodies and launched herself at the last survivor. She wrapped her legs around his middle and hands up under his helmet, around the top of his neck, and as they all watched large, bloody shards of ice shot out from the twisting broken metal of the helm. The Venatori twitched upright for a few seconds and then toppled over, with Fawn still clutching him.

“Gross!” Sera said happily, and she was grinning as she came running to join them.

Fawn extracted herself from the frozen Venatori and they followed the cave down a narrow passageway into another opening. Two more dead, with Cadash de-cloaked and Issala kneeling at the feet of another qunari, who was seated on a rock and holding the sobbing woman, bleeding from her mouth and nose.

“Kadan!” Issala choked. “Kadan, Kadan!”

They murmured in Qunlat as Dorian leaned on his staff, checking the new qunari over. One of her horns had been cut into, no longer like the one of the other side of her head, and sure enough there were discs of horn littering the floor. A curious thing.

Fawn approached them, and as soon as the seated woman caught sight of her she smiled and let out a dry sob, reaching for her. She pulled the lithe elf close to her, and the joy of seeing three lovers reunited made Dorian's chest flutter.

“If they have been running all this time,” Cassandra said as she sidled up to the Inquisitor, “perhaps we should talk to them about returning to Skyhold with us.”

“Please do,” Dorian said quietly, at her other side. “Fawn could be a powerhouse with training from the mages. You should have seen what she did, Cadash. Well, you will on the way out of this place.”

“It was not pretty,” Cassandra said, “but it was effective.”

Cadash rolled her eyes. “You _know_ I was going to ask them anyway.” Dorian exchanged a smile with Cassandra over the Inquistor's head.

The trio of lovers were on their feet now, gathering themselves but unable to keep from touching each other, from reassuring each other that each of them was alive, that they had survived their ordeal. The unashamed affection made Dorian ache for a familiar touch, for large hands that touched softly at the small of his back after a fight. Gathering himself, he pushed past the feeling and instead turned his eyes to watch Sera and the Inquisitor searching the dead Venatori's robes and packs for usable items or documents.

“ **The most vibrant of flowers often come from the filthiest of soils.” - Zack W. Van**


	2. Mutuality and Impermanence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull isn't back when Dorian returns to Skyhold, but his friends are happy to distract him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features background mention of female Cadash/Josephine.
> 
> I couldn't find any reliable information on DAI's timeline, so I just went with my gut. For the sake of timeline clarity, I'm going with roughly under a year at Haven, 2 at Skyhold before Corypheus' defeat, and this fic is set less than a year post-canon.

“ **They know these mornings well and love them desperately because they cannot last - these people who know that nothing lasts.” - Peter S. Beagle**

A raven had been sent ahead of them to let them know that the away party would be returning from the Hinterlands with new arrivals. It was becoming more and more routine for new civilians to come to Skyhold seeking refuge, and those who dealt with the daily running of the place quickly found a use for the skills and talents of new people.

Cullen met them two miles from Skyhold on horseback, falling into step beside their own mounts. The rest of the excursion, including their new arrivals, were a little way behind with the supply wagons.

“The dormitories were getting full,” Cullen told the Inquisitor, his horse comparatively tiny against her giant hart. Dorian smiled to recall the impressive ease with which their dwarf leader managed to mount the thing. “So I've moved my men out, and they've set up camp in the keep. It might be time to consider building some permanent residential settlements beyond the gates. There are several areas where a settlement could stand, within visual range of Skyhold itself.”

“Our own Skyhold village?” Cadash mused.

“Indeed.”

“If your men have moved, the dormitories should be fine for the civilians for now. But if anyone wants to draw up some proper plans for a village settlement, we'll look at them.”

Cullen nodded. “Good. The scouts have sent back reports from the Emerald Graves, they're waiting in the war room. The Iron Bull and his team arrived safe in the Wastes. Aclassi sent us a raven after that confirmation, but all the note said was 'wyverns', and the paper was covered in blood.”

Dorian couldn't help a snort of laughter at that, and Cullen and the Inquisitor both looked back, her grinning and Cullen looking bemused.

“I'm sure they're having the time of their lives. The Bull will be if they're fighting something with teeth, anyway.”

Sera pulled a face at him, surely ready to tease him for his commentary, and he ignored her. Skyhold loomed large in the distance, great walls of stone amongst the snowy jagged peaks of the Frostbacks, and returning felt more like returning home than anything he'd know for years. 

In the keep, a small crowd was gathered to greet them and the rest of the expedition home, spouses and a few children, siblings, and friends. Even Madame de Fer was leaning on her balcony high above, watching their return. It was her second visit to Skyhold in the almost-year since they had defeated Corypheus, and Dorian was glad they'd returned in time for him to catch up with her before she left for Orlais again. Sera waved and yelled at her, and Dorian watched her give something that may have passed for a wave in return. If Vivienne was in good enough spirits to entertain Sera, it bode well for the state of Skyhold on their return.

A qunari who wore a blue vitaar on his face was amongst the welcome party, Dorian recognising him only by sight. The Inquisitor dismounted her hart and made a beeline for him, the large animal helping to easily part the crowd. She had probably sent word ahead for someone better versed in Qunlat to help her speak with the new qunari arrivals. The elf Fawn probably understood Qunlat too, if she had been under the Qun, and certainly enough to maintain a love affair with the two qunari. The thought of them made him smile to himself as he dismounted.

While the Hinterlands had not been particularly taxing despite their run in with the Venatori, where he'd suffered only bruised ribs from the skirmish closing in too close and Cassandra had had her nose bloodied in the same fight, it was still nice to be amongst the relative creature comforts that Skyhold offered. Hot food that wasn't a stew, eaten in the library where there wasn't a draft set on sweeping inside his collar could not be sniffed at. It was late and Dorian had missed dinner proper, but he knew the kitchens were always unofficially open now that Skyhold was serving regular traffic, and supporting a whole host of tradespeople and civilian workers. The Inquisitor kept them well stocked and staffed, and food from the source was always much more palatable. It was common knowledge that whatever was being served to hungry drinkers in the Herald's Rest was based on the leftovers of whatever had been prepared by the kitchens for dinner the previous day.

It was late enough that there was nobody around to grumble at him for eating at one of the research tables in the library, and he cared about the books on the table enough to avoid spilling anything on them. They had returned long before nightfall, but he'd wanted to study the documents they'd recovered from the Venatori band they'd tracked, and as often happened, he had neglected his stomach. Now, tired and ready for a real bed as he was, he wolfed the food down ungraciously, sopping up pools of gravy with chunks of bread and licking his fingers of the excess.

He had an eye-line on the stairs, and was surprised when he saw a head of ill-cut blonde hair appearing. Sera made no move to hide her approach – she had climbed over the railing of the rookery once before just to try and get the jump on him – shoulders limp, arms swinging at her sides as she flat-footed over to him.

“Pfft,” she sounded, flapping her lips like a horse as she flopped into the seat on the opposite side of he table.

“Evening, Sera,” he said, trying to get his arched eyebrow under control. “Aren't you usually swinging from the rafters or hitting on the bard by this time?”

She leaned her elbow on the table. “Aren't you usually putting on a show with Bull by this time?” There was no characteristic smirk on her face, and she didn't even follow up her comment with her trademark cackle, but also no real heat in her voice.

“He's not around, what's your excuse?”

“Knackered,” she sighed. “Today's been nothing but elfy nonsense.”

His eyebrow was lifting again. “You've been with Fawn since we got back?”

“Of course, dumb-shit.”

“You're surprised I'm surprised?” He offered her a chuck of gravy-covered bread, which she plucked out of his fingers. “Why'd you stay, if it was too elfy for you?”

“No other shit knows how to hand-talk,” Sera said matter-of-factly through her mouthful of bread. “Well, one of the cooks does, and mister horses, but nobody in the thingy.”

“Thingy?”

“Y'know.” She made a gesture with her hand, suggesting something tall. “The thingy.”

Dorian took another bite of potato, considering her. A tall place were she'd have had reason to take Fawn.

“You mean the mage tower?”

Sera wrinkled her nose as she nodded, and rested her chin on the back of one of her hands.

“You voluntarily hung around with the mages?”

“None of those glittery shits knows handspeak.”

“So you stuck around to translate.” Dorian pointed his fork at her. “You like Fawn. You've got a soft spot for another mage.”

Sera guffawed. “Another? Don't get ahead of yourself.”

He ignored the insult. “How elfy is she?”

“Not her. She's more magicy than elfy. The rest of them in the thingy-” Sera rolled her eyes.

“But you stuck around,” Dorian mused, “when really, she could have got by with shaking her head and nodding.”

“No, you jumped-up prick.” It was a barb with much less venom than he really deserved for such a thoughtless comment. “They were talking about training, and rules, and all this magic-shit stuff I didn't know anything about, and she needed to be able to negotiate, yeah? Otherwise, she'd be stuck with some sparkling windbag deciding what's best for her.”

Dorian tried to convey his defeat clearly, raising his hands in surrender, because Sera was right. He'd heard enough about Ferelden circles to know that what the Inquisitor was hosting in the mage's tower was not the same, and to expect Fawn to just accept being a student with no negotiation was against how he thought magic should fundamentally be taught.

“So I helped, yeah? And she's nice, I guess, but she's dangerous. You saw what she can do, right? I want her pointing away from our guy's arses.”

“Fair enough.” He speared the last of his vegetables on his fork, considering for a moment how satisfying a good Ferelden meal could be. He never dreamed it possible before, but there was a lot he had not expected that had come to pass, including almost civilised conversation with the rowdy elf. Fork halfway to his mouth, his looked over at Sera again. “Where did she learn handspeak? I doubt the qunari taught her after cutting into her throat to silence her.”

“Dunno.” Sera shrugged. “Didn't look at the clever horse's teeth.”

“Right,” Dorian said, deciding not to comment on Sera's unique use of an old idiom. “Where did you learn it?”

“Knew a lad with junk ears. Couldn't hear a thing. Needed to talk to him, had stuff to do.” Sera shrugged again, as if learning a whole language of signs was a small matter. “Don't they have hand-talking for what the Tevinters speak? Tevinterish?”

“Tevene,” he corrected after he'd swallowed his mouthful, more out of habit than any worry for Sera's sense of table manners. “And no, not as far as I know. Perhaps amongst the soporati, but in the nobility anyone with any affliction that rendered them less than their breeding – deaf, blind, mute – would be shut away out of sight for most of their lives. Or miraculously cured-”

“By opening your legs for a demon,” Sera supplied.

“-by someone opening their legs for a demon,” Dorian agreed, “or possible seen to a convenient end.”

“I knew Tevinters were baby-killers,” she said darkly, eyes narrowing. She might have cackled again if she didn't look ready to pass out and sleep right there.

“I can't confirm it.” Dorian sighed as he pushed his plate sideways so he could put his forearms on the table. “But there were forever rumours about various houses getting rid of children that were not... ideal. Whether by infanticide or abandoning the babe to its fate on an orphanage doorstep, the rumours vary from house to house.”

Sera scowled, scratching her chin with one blunt nail. “Good thing your family didn't know you were runty that early, then, yeah?”

If anyone else had referred to his romantic orientation as 'runty' he might have at least sneered, but Sera was not anyone else. Even though all of his close associates, and Skyhold in general had not passed judgement on the way he was, nobody more than Sera, Cadash and the Iron Bull had been more enthusiastic about his gendered preference. She'd point out attractive men to his wide-ranging tastes, and tease him with crude jokes and innuendo, which all made things seems so _normal._ It was something he had never had the luxury of before, and while he had never once thanked her for it, he was sure she knew he needed it.

“Indeed. Are you going to hang around with Fawn tomorrow, too?”

“Shite yeah.” Sera huffed a breath upwards, making her fringe dance. “I need to know how she got with not one, but two big _phwoar_ women.”

The force of his own laugh surprised him, something hearty and warm from the centre of his chest. Sera grinned as she pushed her seat away from the table. “Night, runty.”

“Goodnight.” He waved her off, smiling at her retreating form.

\---

A new week brought no word on when Bull and the Chargers could be expected back, Spymaster Charter offering the non-update without prompting. Dorian nodded his thanks, then decided to leave the library tower to keep his mind of the disappointment of that news. He had expected Bull to still be away when he returned, extending the time they'd gone without seeing each other to over two months now. Although the Chargers had become an unofficial arm of the Inquisition, they were still given leeway to pursue their own jobs now that things were more mundane than defeating darkspawn magisters, and Dorian suspected this particular job in the far-off reaches of the Hissing Wastes had a lot to do with Bull wanting to take his team on a bonding exercise. Only the Iron Bull would think to pair that with hunting something venomous.

It was not the longest time they had been apart, but only by a margin now, and when the Inquisitor chose not to take everyone on an expedition, the weeks could mount up, but the dull ache for the qunari remained. If there had been the company of a particular large, warm body, he would have returned to bed and slept in, but as it was there seemed little point when he would only end up wasting the morning touching himself to the thought of his absent bed partner. It had truly been too long.

The Skyhold kitchens prepared one meal a day at dinner, and otherwise focused on troop-related food concerns. It did not mean, however, that breakfast was hard to come by in Skyhold: this particular niche had been promptly filled by the merchants in the keep, who cooked and sold their own hot offerings on portable stoves and out of makeshift ovens. He was fond of one the stall's meat-filled pastries, and purchased three large pasties wrapped in scraps of clean cloth to keep the heat in. He unwrapped one and held it aloft, allowing it to cool in the brisk morning air before he considered biting into it.

He wandered aimlessly, unwilling to let his mind settle on thoughts of the particular absence that plagued him. A small band of Cullen's troops were already at the training ring, but they didn't seem eager to start, leaning on their swords and chatting amongst themselves. Several elf children were sitting in the sunlight on the steps leading up to the main hall, braiding each other's hair. A rumble of conversation could already be heard coming from the tavern, and nearby Cassandra was sheathing her sword, bare arms glistening with exertion from her practice.

“Dorian,” she said when she spotted him, reminding him how good his name sounded in her mouth when it was said with the easy affection of having no pressing concerns, “good morning.”

He bent his torso slightly in a bow. “Good morning. Care for a pastry?” He offered out the hand that clutched the two other linen-wrapped morsels, and she considered them.

“You're sure?”

“Oh yes, I brought more than I need, but I do so like them.”

The seeker took one of the offered pasties, unwrapping it as Dorian took the first bite of his own. He would have crumbs of flaking pastry all down his front by the end of it, but Cassandra would too, so he didn't worry about the little embarrassment.

“People forget how much energy mages use.” She nodded towards the spare parcels of food he carried. “They do not appreciate that magic must be fuelled by something more than the fade.”

“Indeed so. Have you heard any word on how our new arrivals are settling in?”

“The Inquisitor found a room for them to share, for now. Considering their difficulty communicating, she thought giving them their own space might help them to settle.”

“Our Cadash is wise more than her years.”

“We agree.” Cassandra nodded, biting into her pastry tentatively. Clearly Dorian was not the only one to have burned his mouth by being over-eager before now.

“Issala, it would appear, was a Tamassran. Kadan, a healer of some kind. They must have had some connection to Fawn, to know her so well.”

“Possibly they knew her a long time,” Dorian mused. “Fawn had to be born under the Qun, the qunari fear mage possession so vehemently, I can't see them bothering to train her rather than kill her outright if she wasn't born there.”

“But how is it then she speaks – in her way – common, and they barely do?”

Dorian had nothing to go on but guesswork, and he considered the things he knew of the Qun over another bite. “They could have taught it to her. The qunari use mages to hunt down deserters, perhaps it served some purpose for her to know it.”

“We ought not discuss it,” Cassandra sighed. “If they wish to explain, in time they will.”

“What has the Inquistor got them doing?”

“Nothing at present. I believe she is stalling until she can get the Iron Bull's input.”

Dorian nodded. “She's worried they could be spies. Though it seems a strange ruse to use.”

“Perhaps, but it is better to make sure.”

“They're not spies!”

He and Cassandra both started, looking towards the voice. Sera was sat on the roof outside of the window of the room she'd claimed in the tavern, scowling at them.

“You cannot know that,” Cassandra told her smartly, regaining her poise.

Sera narrowed her eyes, and held out a hand to Dorian and made a grabby motion. It look him a few seconds, then he rolled his eyes and tossed his last meat pasty up to her. She caught it and wasted no time tucking in to her free breakfast.

“They're not spies,” she repeated around a mouthful of food. “They saved Fawn. They'd have got their heads all poked-around for that, easy. They had Ben-Haswots _and_ Vena-poo-i on them!”

“For all we know, they _could_ be the Ben-Hasrath,” Dorian said, although he very much hoped it was untrue. “The story of them being pursued could be false.”

Sera scoffed, shoulders squaring. “The Tevinter shits cut her horns up!”

“Whether she is smart by luck or smart by training, that is not as dire as we suspected,” Cassandra said.

“What do you mean?” Dorian looked to her, curious.

“You heard her screaming as we approached the cave, but when it was over, she did not seem in pain. From what the Inquisitor has said, it seems she purposefully made the Venatori think that cutting her horns was torture, when in reality they do not have blood in them. She fooled them to keep them distracted from doing any real harm.”

“I'm not sure that would have worked if the Venatori weren't clearly not the brightest of their bunch,” Dorian offered.

“Perhaps.” Cassandra nodded. “But we should not treat them only as victims, as helpless. They survived this long.”

“They're just _people_ ,” Sera snapped, clearly upset. She retreated from the roof back through the window of her room and slammed it shut behind her. Dorian sighed.

“She's taken a shine to them,” he said, enough to explain without betraying the inherent trust that came from late night conversations.

Cassandra sighed. “I am also hoping they are who they say they are. I would much rather we saved three lovers, than aided three spies. Varric is probably making notes for a story about this as we speak.”

“You truly are a romantic, my dear Seeker.” He grinned at her, and she rolled her eyes and huffed in what could be termed fond disgust.

\---

Skyhold's garden was sheltered from the elements, and at the height of a mountaintop summer, it was bustling with sun-seekers wanting to bask in the warmth. The smell of crystal grace hung in the air with the soft plinking of lutes and harmonising voices from a the small group of musicians who had gathered in the shade of the stone gazebo, a pleasant background accompaniment to the afternoon.

Dorian had perched himself in one of the sunnier archways with several books, some parchment, quills and ink to continue his note-taking for the enchantments he'd been tasked with researching. They were old magic, subtle and complex, and thus he was happy to do the reading himself rather than pass the task directly to Dagna, even if it was more her area of expertise.

He'd been distracted, however, when he realised the elf and two qunari they'd helped in the Hinterlands some weeks ago were sat together in the sun on a grassy path on the other side of the garden. He'd been been keeping himself busy since then, and this was the first time he'd seen them in more than passing.

Fawn looked much healthier than the first time he'd seen her. She was quite stocky for an elf, short and compact, and the steady meals at Skyhold had filled out her muscles from the starving, wasted appearance. Her dark hair was twisted into a head full of delicate knots, the hair and exposed pieces of skin making a pleasing pattern, and her brown arms were bared to the summer sun, lounging in the grass and fiddling with something in her hands.

Issala was reading a book one-handed, the other skimming absently over Fawn's legs that were in her lap. Her crooked horns looked healthier than he remembered, and they were decorated in intricate white vitaar. Her white hair was pulled back in a single long braid, tied with a blue ribbon. She had bared her chest to the sun, the vitaar on her arm and shoulder that had faded much more than on her horns extending down over one steel-grey breast; the display had a couple of the chantry sisters looking over rather unsubtly, but everyone else seemed nonplussed by the qunari's partial nudity, or at least too intimidated to say anything. Bull would probably like her.

Kadan was talking, hands animated in front of her. She was tall like qunari came, but seemed leaner than he'd known. Then again, before the Inquisition, he'd only ever encountered qunari soldiers and mercenaries, and they were all built like titans. Her left horn curved gently in a spiral with a point facing the front, while her other was short, almost two thirds of it cut away, and her grey hair had been woven into tight braids against her scalp, then the rest pulled into a bun at her nape.

Their relationship hadn't shocked Dorian, but he had still never actually encountered anything like it. The idea of non-monogamy was not new of course, he had seen and heard of many variations on it back in Tevinter. There were married Magisters and their spouses who had arrangements so one or both could pursue lovers, couples who did so without explicitly acknowledging it to their spouse, and even some couples who shared a favoured slave. He'd heard of marriages with multiple spouses, and sordid tales of harems. Even in myths of ancient heroes and terrible literature, he'd never seen anything like this. A woman in the stories might have had two lovers, but eventually they would fight over her. A man's decision usually came down to deciding which of the two women he was courting was upstanding and fertile enough for him, the other cast aside. The protagonist's lovers could only interact if they were enemies; they could never be friends, and they surely couldn't love each other, too.

It was a marvel, more than anything else, to witness three people who seemed to be equally emotionally invested in each other. Briefly he considered whether it could last, but he set the thought aside with a shake of his head and a refocus on his work to copy down a reference from the book he had open; it didn't matter whether it lasted. Things that did not last still had meaning, and things that were not permanent were still of importance, or else what was the point of trying for anything?

He tapped the end of his quill against his chin as he looked over at them again. Issala was speaking now, though he couldn't hear them from here, and from the enraptured attention of the other two, it appeared she was reading to them from her book. His chest fluttered at the sight of it, thinking on all the times he'd laid naked in Bull's bed with a book and read from it; sometimes without prompting, sometimes Bull asked, and even if it was 'weird magic shit' as Bull often put it, the qunari always seemed to settle under his voice. It was a strange and powerful feeling, to have a man so honed for and tuned to battle, relax so visible under his vocal ministrations.

He must have been staring, because when he blinked his vision back into focus, Issala was looking at him. The other two had resumed talking amongst themselves, and Dorian lifted his hand in a little wave, hoping his smile could convey apology and non-judgement. She closed her book and began to rise to her feet, still looking at him, which made Dorian nervous. He hadn't meant to be one of the likely countless people who stared at them with such lack of subtly that they may as well have spoken in a shout rather than behind their hands. A few heads turned now to the tall, broad, bare-chested woman making her way across the garden, and the low hiss of whispers approached with her. A few yards from his archway, Issala smiled warmly, and Dorian let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

“I can sit?” she asked, indicating the expanse of stone beyond Dorian's feet.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled back and moving around his books and papers, placing them on the floor in the cloister and sitting cross legged on the stone wall. Issala crossed one leg under the other, lifting her hands to her shoulders and raising her elbows as she stretched her torso, rolling her shoulders back. “I'm sorry for staring.”

“People is staring because we are beautiful,” she said, half teasing and half flippant self-assurance, and Dorian laughed. Bull really would like her. It was also true: she was a strikingly handsome woman, statuesque in the style of Rivaini icons, when the soft swell of breast and belly were the ideal, instead of the honed, trained, athletic ideals of Tevinter. “You is beautiful too, you have this?”

“Not so much any longer. They've become accustomed to my beauty.”

She smiled wider at him, and it was apparent her grasp on common was better than her current speaking ability, although that was noticeably improved from the stuttering common she'd employed when they'd met.

“Vint?” she asked, and Dorian was nodding before it even occurred to him he could take offence. The word was rarely used as barb around Skyhold anymore, and Issala gave it no venom.

“Yes.”

“But you is here.”

“I'm a pariah.”

She did furrow her brow at that, and he considered his word choice.

“Self-subjected exile. Like you are Tal-Vashoth.”

“Vints, they hunt you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Perhaps not quite like Tal-Vashoth, then.”

“Why you go?”

He always wondered what people expected to hear, when they asked. Perhaps they thought he'd left to explore the world. Mostly, they thought he'd left because of deep-rooted idealogical differences, but that – he was ashamed to have to admit – was really not it. When the nature of his attractions was mentioned, it was often assumed he had left for love, and that was not true either. It was hard to distil into a bite size explanation that would make curious minds happy.

“I couldn't stay.” Issala kept looking at him without acknowledging his answer, but she also didn't prompt him to elaborate; he got the distinct impression she was sizing him up. After a moment, she finally inclined her head, and her gaze relaxed.

“You is bas saarebas?”

“Yes.”

“You train in tower?”

“Sometimes.” He preferred to train alone, but had accepted Fiona's request for occasional sessions with the mage recruits.

“Fawn will train you.” Issala smiled, her eyebrows raising with the tease of it. “She is strong.”

“I saw. How?” The only qunari mages he'd ever seen had been used for shock and awe, usually with devastating fire magic. Fawn had not only used ice, which was much harder to self-teach, and healing magic, which was complex and dangerous, considering the qunari would kill a whole karataam of mages at the first hint of the risk of possession. Issala seemed to guess the nature of his thoughts.

“Arvaarad study bas saarebas, train saarebas new ways. Arishok orders this.”

“The Arishok ordered new magical techniques be studied?” Dorian asked, eyebrows flying up in surprise. “The Qun is piss-scared of mages as it is.”

“People make rumour Arishok knows bas saarbas in travels here, they is worthy. Take risk to make better karataam.”

“Did it work?”

Issala raised her hand and wobbled it in front of her. “Some magic is more risk. Arvaarad knows this, taking care. Careful. No Arvaarad here?”

“There's Templars,” Dorian said. “Not here, though. Well, there are Templars here, but the mages here are free, so the Templars don't watch them. Not officially, anyway, I'm pretty sure Cullen keeps tabs on the tower.” He paused, because Issala looked a little lost. He had digressed away from her question, so he backtracked. “Templars are like Arvaarad. Their methods are less extreme, mostly.”

she motioned around them. “Here?” Perhaps she had meant Skyhold specifically, after all.

“Yes, they are here,” he said carefully, wanting to make sure he was clear. “But not to supervise the mages.”

Issala considered him, scratching idly down her sternum. She looked over at her lovers, her eyes lingering, and then looked back at Dorian. “Is we safe here?”

His stomach flip-flopped, and he took a calming breath in through his nose. “You can be.” He noded, even though it was not an assurance he could or should be making.

Issala smiled at him, reaching over to take his hand and squeeze it in thanks. Dorian twisted his wrist and squeezed back.

\---

There was no need for Dorian to get dressed up to spend an evening with the Inquisitor in her quarters, as he was not trying to woo her, and he didn't need to impress her. But it mattered to him that he looked his best when he went to see her, because there was something about presenting himself with coiffed hair, gold powder dusted over his eyelids, and wearing something comfortable but elegant enough that he might have once impressed a bed partner with it, that communicated the deep respect he had for her. She mattered to him, and in turn he knew he mattered to her, and it was a friendship he had come to treasure.

For Zirconia Cadash, who greeted him at the door to her rooms, it was almost the opposite. That her black hair was pulled free of the intricate braiding, her long mutton-chop sideburns loose too, wearing only a loose black silk robe was a sign of her ease in his company. She so rarely let anyone beyond the circle of people she had gathered see her so plain and unarmed, it felt like a privilege to be welcomed into her space when she looked like this. The light blue tattoos on her dark skin looked strange without the usual accompaniment of blue and black make-up, almost otherworldly in their contrast.

“Evening,” she said, gesturing him into the room. He gave a small bow, then entered. There was a fire blazing in the hearth and the sofa had been moved in front of it, probably by Cadash herself, knowing what she was like.

 

“How _has_ your day been, dear friend?”

Cadash sighed exasperatedly, because she clearly understood what his tone was referencing. Skyhold had been playing host to Orlesian dignitaries, and there was nothing that caused more drama than Orlesians.

“Maybe I'll have Dagna stand in for me tomorrow. They probably won't even notice the difference.”

He smiled sympathetically, patting the sofa next to him as he sat down. The nearby low table already had a decanted red wine and two glasses on it, and the thought of it warmed him; nobody else in Skyhold now that Vivienne was not in permanent residence knew how to treat wine properly, or would go to the trouble of letting it aerate before a social call.

“That bad?”

“They think they're being nice when they tell me I'm impressive, 'for a dwarf',” Cadash told him as she poured two glasses of wine from the decanter, and handed one to Dorian before she took up her place beside him, pulling her legs up onto the sofa under herself and settling back into the plush fabric. “And of course, they all think their politicking goes over my head, and they field their questions to Josephine to translate to me.”

“Josie is standing for that?” He sniffed at his wine, enjoying the smell of it. Cadash always managed to get the good stuff for these nights.

“She redirects them with the unflappable patience she has,” Cadash said fondly. “Then later, we talk out her hypothetical plans for ruining them in private.”

“A good woman,” Dorian chuckled. “You're a lucky one.”

“She is, and I am,” the Inquisitor agreed, smiling into her glass as she took a sip.

He cast his eyes about the room. “Where is she tonight? You've shared quarters for some months now.”

“She'll come by later. So you'll have to take the sofa if you drink too much to stand.”

Dorian groaned at the incident she was referencing, a night in the first month after they'd arrived at Skyhold, when Cadash had still been bruised and battered from the events of Haven and in dire need of someone to witness her at her lowest. He had thought at first it was because he was the only person whom she didn't care what they thought of her, but as they'd drunk into the early hours he'd realised he was, in fact, a person who she trusted enough to let him witness her failing to cope with the weight of everything.

She had needed him then, and he could not have even entertained letting her down, so they had drunk far too much together. They had woke up sickly and groggy the next morning in her bed, both cowering from daylight under the bedsheets. There was nothing quite like mutual drunkenness and mutual suffering to cement a friendship.

“I've made it back to my room before I passed on every night we've done together, since then,” he said, sticking his nose up with exaggerated haughtiness.

“Or back to Bull's room. I'm sure he takes good care of your drunk arse.”

“Oh, quite literally.”

It was a joke, which produced the intended result of Cadash laughing. In reality, on the nights when he turned up at the man's door that degree of inebriated, the Bull would walk him back to his own and make sure he got there safely. Some time later, as the nature of things changed, he'd let him into his room and help him undress, then put him down in his own bed to sleep off his overindulgence.

Cadash swirled her wine in her glass. “How long has it been since you tumbled into bed with Bull?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Dorian waved his hand dismissively, but he did think about it then, “a while, I-” He took a sharp breath in at the realisation. “Two and a half years.”

“That shocks you?” Cadash laughed. “That's two anniversaries and at least one world-ending screaming fight.”

“I've never really counted the time like that. It's always been in much smaller increments. A month since the tower construction was finished. Three weeks since the last dragon. Two months since we were snowed in on the Emprise. I've never thought of it all as one time before.”

“Is it? All one time? Or a collection of short affairs?”

“I'm not sure.”

They might not celebrate time passing, but there were other way they their relationship was marked, now Dorian considered it. Gifts and casual declarations of monogamy and shared living space; having his own room was, after all, a token gesture at this point.

“I'm not sure how the Bull would view it, either. But I suppose...” His voice trailed off, unsure how to form the words. It was not that he didn't trust Cadash, in fact, she was the only person with the privilege to ask him questions of this depth and breadth, but they were thoughts he had no voiced to anyone yet.

“You suppose...?”

“There hasn't been anyone else,” he said in a rush, as if he wouldn't have to nerve to voice it otherwise. “For me, for him, we haven't gone with anyone else. I could have, maker knows Bull could have, but we haven't, in two and a half years, so perhaps that _does_ mean it's all one affair. One long affair.”

“You sound shocked at the idea.”

“I am. Aren't you a little surprised?”

“At what?”

“Take your pick.” He tilted his glass at her. “Tevinter altus and Qunari spy falling in- into bed together? Bull no longer trying to bed every redhead in Skyhold?”

“You, letting yourself be happy?”

“I've no problem seeking my own pleasure.”

“Pleasure and happiness aren't always the same thing, Dorian.”

“I suppose not,” he said into his glass, continuing low enough that Cadash could choose to ignore the muffled words if she chose, “happiness was always a distant possibility for me.”

“Because you didn't think you could have it,” she pressed, “or because you didn't think you deserve it?”

He laughed into his wine. “Both, I'd wager. One is easier to prove wrong that the other.”

“Which is which?” She didn't pressure him, precisely, and he knew if he really wanted to, she would play along as he steered the conversation in another direction, but she also reached over for the decanter to top up their glasses.

“I am happy,” he said, thoughtfully. “It's a pleasant surprise, but whatever Bull and I are, whatever I am here at Skyhold, I'm happy.”

“But the deserving part still gives you trouble?”

He shrugged as she set the decanter aside, stretching out her legs before she tucked them under herself again.

“It was never really as simple a thing as what I thought I deserved. After all, I grew up with nobility; I thought I deserved everything. I was denied nothing I desired, until the thing I wanted was to deviate from my family's legacy plans. I just knew I could never have what I wanted in Tevinter. I couldn't live openly, or form anything lasting. When I came here, the things about me that I had been taught was devious was of little note; even your nobility sees it as more of an inconvenience than an abhorrence when it comes to arranging succession.”

“I'd prefer my nature not to be seen as an inconvenience in anyone's eyes,” Cadash said evenly, “but I'd take that over Tevinter.”

“As would I, gladly.” He nodded, and they shared a smile and drunk deeply from their glasses. The wine was rich and heady, and he was sure now by the amount still left in the crystal decanter that Cadash must have emptied two bottles into it. She knew well enough how these nights were likely to progress, and it was a joy to be so indulged without judgement.

“It's difficult, I think,” he said, staring into the fire as he considered the words to articulate this thoughts, “to feel as if you deserve something when you can't conceptualise having it at all. Then you start to envision it, and you're not sure it's possible. Being on the same trajectory but likely heading to different destinations – it's hard.”

“Why do you think you and Bull have different destinations?”

“I think one day, some things will be insurmountable.” The word stuck uncomfortably in his throat.

“Like what?”

“He's qunari, he can't-” He sighed, because he wasn't even sure he could say it in a way that made sense.

“Can't match the way you're feeling about him?”

Dorian didn't say anything, and instead shot Cadash a plaintive look before he put his glass to his mouth again, swigging too much at once.

“If Bull is anything,” she said gently, “it's surprising. The Qun being in the background might complicate things, but so does Tevinter. So does the Inquisition. Everything is a layer of complexity. As someone who had to duel a man in the course of courtship, I'm fully behind the idea of dealing with complex, if happiness lies on the other side. Or even just the possibility of it, actually.”

“Well,” Dorian said, blinking himself back into focus and grateful to the Inquisitor that she'd laid his graceful end to the conversation so plainly for him to follow, “at least I won't have to duel Bull's qunari betrothed, since the Qun doesn't have marriage.”

“There's that.” She laughed, dark eyes sparkling at him. “I feel as if we're going to need more wine for tonight.”

Dorian agreed, offering his glass up for the Inquisitor to clink her own against it.

“ **Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and to have her nonsense respected.” - Charles Lamb**


	3. A Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iron Bull returns to Skyhold, and Dorian indulges his need to take care of him.

“ **Sometimes it's easy to forget how much you miss people until you see them again.” - Colleen Hoover**

A raven had finally reached them with the news he wanted to hear nearly six weeks after they'd returned from the Hinterlands; the Chargers were making good time on their return trip, and were around a day from Skyhold. Charter had been kind enough to tell him, and also kind enough not to judge the bark of relieved laughter he had been unable to stifle. Four months was the longest they'd been apart by a large margin, but he'd expected it sooner or later now the Inquisitor had moved on to smaller teams, working around everyone's new focuses and responsibilities. After the news, it was near impossible to concentrate on his current research assignment, mind wandering. He abandoned his attempt by lunchtime, fed himself and then headed to the bathhouse.

He knew, of course, that The Iron Bull would not care whether he was freshly preened and polished or not on his return, but the ritual of bathing and grooming had more to do with an effort to distract himself from the excited butterflies that had taken refuge in his torso since the morning raven.

He washed with his favourite soap, shaved, and trimmed his hair and his moustache with delicate silverite edged scissors. With time still to spare and little inclination to return to the library with his mind elsewhere, he decided to continue his grooming ritual with painted nails. After a fruitless search of his quarters, he realised the darkest nail powder he had, along with his freshest kohl mixture were both in Bull's quarters. He had no idea if Bull's room would even be unlocked with him away; he didn't imagine so, he doubted Bull would want drunk patrons stumbling or sneaking in.

The Herald's Rest was quiet without the Chargers, no boisterous game of darts or wicked grace going on, though he knew even in their absence, it could still happen, just perhaps not this early in the day. Without them there, Dorian hadn't seen fit to visit as often as usual; even when Bull was away with the Inquisitor, the Chargers had grown used to – perhaps even fond, he hoped – of his presence. Without either, it seemed more useful to drink wine in the library while he researched. It wasn't as if that was an inherently solitary endeavour; the Inquisitor sometimes joined him to talk long into the night, and with Vivienne visiting, he had had several nights spent on her once-favoured balcony, talking of her business in Orlais and all the associated political drama that she was privy to.

“What're you sneaking around at?”

Dorian would never admit to jumping out of his skin, but he did flinch noticeably at Sera's voice, hand on the doorknob of Bull's room.

“Did he get back and go in all quiet?” She was leant on the nearest railing, watching him. “Can't hear his people having a sing-song, so he can't be, yeah?”

“Sera,” he said nicely, struck by inspiration, “you're a clever, resourceful sort-”

She snorted with derisive laugher, but did cross to lean against the wall beside Bull's door, apparently quick enough to anticipate what he was going to say.

She pulled a pin out of the arm seam of her tunic and bumped her hip against his, ushering him aside. “Haven't you got a key? You practically live here.”

“Can you do it, or not?” he asked impatiently instead of answering. Sera knelt by the lock, and it took her less than ten seconds until the lock clicked open. “Thank you.”

Sera followed him into the room as she stashed her tools back on her person, and didn't even retreat when Dorian flicked his wrist at the small hearth and magically lit a fire in it.

Sera looked around the room with something like doubtful wonder. “This your doing?”

He knew what she meant, that the Bull's room that had once been sparse now looked quite unlike what one would envision how the man kept his quarters. The hole in the roof was long fixed, the debris and encroaching plant life cleared out, and there were several handmade shelves on one wall covered with trinkets, soapstone figurines, impressive gemstones, a few wooden carvings. A table and two mismatched chairs were close to the fire, the tabletop covered in scraps of material and metal. Swaths of fabric covered the one wall without torch brackets, and there was a large ornate Antivan rug on the stone floor. There were candles and bowls of unlit incense covering the top of a dresser and around the basin in the corner, and the bed had several needlessly decorative pillows on it.

“My tastes are somewhat more refined.” He sniffed, though looking around the space filled him with affection. “The Iron Bull likes pretty things.” He gestured at himself. “Case in point.”

While Dorian had discovered Bull had an appreciation for such things beyond the utilitarianism he'd expected, and all it had taken was the relative permanency of Skyhold to have him indulge it, he didn't doubt the qunari also knew how to use every one of those pretty trinkets as a weapon, to be destroyed or left at a moment's notice. An appreciation for them in the moment, with no lasting attachment; perhaps a reflection of larger things. He dismissed the thought.

“If you're going to stay-” Dorian started, turning away from the dresser to see Sera had already spread herself over the bed, lounging amongst the pillows, “-I'm going to paint your nails.”

She cackled, her grin telling him the threat had not landed as such. “Thing's sure, glitter mister.”

Dorian sighed, admittedly fondly, as he found his nail powder. He lit up the nearest wall bracket to the bed with magic, which reminded him that he kept intending to find an oil lamp for the room for the more consistent light. It was true that he spent more time in Bull's room than his own, it would probably make sense to bring the lamp he had on his bedside table, even if it was expensive-

“You're tarting yourself up for Bull, aren't ya?”

“I'm the most handsome man in Skyhold.” He climbed onto the bed, sitting crossed-legged opposite her, “People would be disappointed if I didn't look my best.”

Sera snorted again, watching him as he topped a little black powder with two drops of oil in the lid of the power jar, mixing it with a brush. He'd seen Sera with kohl applied and bright red nails before now, so he knew the process wasn't alien to her, but he wouldn't have been surprised if her make-up was made up from something strange and unwise.

“Give me your hand.” She extended one without fuss, and he could see the state of her nails up close. “Ugh, you bite these, don't you? I wouldn't advise it with this on, you'll get black teeth, and that hasn't been in fashion for decades.”

“What knob wants black teeth?” Sera grimaced, but kept her hand still as Dorian began to paint the dye onto her nails.

“It was a fashion in Tevinter at one point,” he mused. “Somewhat before my time, but I've seen the frescos.”

Sera looked suspiciously at Dorian working. “This isn't going to bring me out in hives, is it? I've seen the black dye, it makes people blow up like they just offered their gob to a painted qunari.”

“Dye made from indigo does that if you wear it too long, but this is something else. Something far too expensive for me to be wasting it on someone who will probably suck the dye off in a matter of hours.” The dig was toothless, and Sera just laughed.

“Big babe one has red-painted claws,” Sera said. Dorian looked up from her thumb to frown at her.

“Who?”

“You know, big babe one from the lady threesome.”

Dorian realises she was talking about the trio they had helped in the Hinterlands over six weeks ago. “They have names.”

“They share a bed, you know. Two big phwoar bodies and a little skinny body, all in a bed. Better not roll over!”

“How do you know this?”

“Fawn told me.”

“And Fawn doesn't mind telling you about her sex life?”

“I'm talking about bed sleeping, not bed sexing! Dirty mind can't climb of the gutter, because you and Bull live there. I hear you, y'know. Especially when you do it against the door.”

He could feel heat in his cheeks. “Well, I can't realistically make any promises to keep the noise down.”

“I bet.” She grinned at him. “A chorus of boot-knocking is a better sound than silence in a place like this, so don't get all hot about it. Silence means there's something wrong. Wonder if all qunari make little lovers scream. Imagine having two on you at once!”

Dorian tried his utmost to think of anything but being manhandled by two Iron Bulls – Sera would never let him live down a poorly timed erection. “Let them dry,” he said as he finished off painting her thumb. “Don't get it on the bedsheets.”

Dorian reapplied dye to his brush and set about painting the nails of his own hand, something he was well practised with, able to pass the brush between hands and not get any on the surrounding skin.

“You ever meet someone who had two sweethearts, and the sweethearts love them, and each other, in a triangle, and sharing a bed?”

“I haven't. For my experience in Tevinter, even people who are married don't share a bed.”

“You've got to be good at sharing.”

“You'll have to ask Fawn about it. I'm sure she can give you some pointers on finding yourself your own pair of qunari lovers.”

“Oh, I wish! Woof. You doing foot-wigglers?”

He sighed fondly. “Yes. I'll do our toes.”

\---

If not for the murmurs amongst the other people in the library that the Chargers had returned, Dorian would not have known. He peered out of the closest window and even thought he couldn't see anything in the dark, sure enough, in the keep below he recognised the familiar voices.

“Fasta vaas!” he said as he turned on his heel to stride purposefully towards the steps. What had been the point of asking one of the men on watch to alert him when the Chargers were due back if no word reached him? His grand plans for meeting Bull in the courtyard were scuppered, and while he knew the man would not be offended by the missed gesture, after four months without seeing him, he had wanted to be there, and it surprised him how annoyed he felt to be unable to do so.

The replacement plans he'd quickly made as he rushed out of the tower and through the grand hall were derailed again, this time by Varric.

“Woah, Sparkler,” he called. “Bull's already with Cadash in the war office, she wants you there.”

“Thank you!” He nodded in his direction as he turned to head up the great hall instead. Josephine waved him through, following at his heel. Cassandra and Sera were already in the room with Cadash, Cullen, Leliana and Iron Bull.

Dorian stared; four months and Bull looked almost a different man. He had a beard, for one: it was neat and dark, pulled into braid at his chin and secured with a metal band. He had a head full of jet black wild curls, although his hairline was much farther back than most non-qunari to account for his horns. His skin was a darker grey than he remembered, it looked as though the man had practically baked in the sun of the wastes, and there was a large but healing gash on his arm. The thing that caught Dorian off guard most, however, were his nails – his claws. They were perhaps an inch long, curved and menacing at the end of his intact fingers, and it had been so easy to forget that qunari nails did not grow like weak human ones.

“You just let them in?” Bull asked, anger clearly colouring his tone. He was looking at the Inquisitor on the opposite side of the table, and had not looked over at him. “You're not dumb, Boss, but that was stupid.”

“It was my call,” she shot back.

“A dangerous one. I've told you that the Ben-Hasrath are smart, that if they want to find a way in that wasn't me, they could do it.”

“Was I meant to turn them away?”

“You could of at least kept them out of Skyhold until I got back. This is why I'm here, Boss, to stop this from happening.”

“Nothing is happening! Things have been fine!”

Both of their voices were rising slowly, and nobody seemed ready to step between them. A heated debate between their short Cadash and their qunari ex-spy would have been funny if it weren't so strange and unnerving for either of them to lose their temper.

“For all you know you, could have just let three Ben-Hasrath agents settle into Skyhold. You've already sent the mage to the tower! After everything you've put into making a free alliance with the mages work, you've risked it all!”

“They're not spies, Bull!” Sera piped up.

Some of the fight seemed to leave him, and he held up a calming hand. “Sera-”

“They're not! They're just people, hurt people! They were running and apart and almost broke! They're not spies!”

“Iron Bull,” Cadash said, having regained her usual calm, easy tone, “we will sort this out. I truly don't believe any damage has been done. If they're spies, we'll deal with it accordingly. How do you suggest we start?”

“Gather them, I'll talk to them. Not in here, obviously.”

“I'm not quite _that_ stupid.”

“True enough,” Bull said, nodding at her.

Cadash turned to address the group at large. “That's all for now. Me and Bull will do this, you can get updates when we're done.”

As people began to leave the war room, Bull finally looked over at Dorian. He smiled, warm and wide, and made his way round the table towards him.

“You look amazing,” Bull told him. “As ever.”

“ _You_ look like a wildman.” Dorian turned his face up so Bull could kiss him chastely on the mouth, his beard scratching him in a different way to the short stubble-tash-goatee combo he usually sported.

“You like?” Bull rumbled, ever so lightly pressing his claws around Dorian's arm.

“I hate it a great deal less than I expected to.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhmm.” He closed the gap between their faces to kiss him again, a little longer this time, a little more gentle.

“Wish I could show you how much I've missed you right now. I'm ready to fuck you right on this table.”

Cadash hid her laugh behind a cough, and they both realised she was still in the room.

“Later,” Dorian told him, smothering his own grin. “Come to the bathhouse when you're done.”

“I could be a while.”

“I'll wait.”

A affectionate noise rumbled out of Bull, and with one last kiss, he straightened and nodded at the Inquisitor. Dorian made his leave from the war room, feeling altogether better than he had for weeks.

He took the time with the detour to his room, aware that Bull might take a while to conclude his business. Once he had gathered all that he needed, he descended to Skyhold's bathhouse, which was occupied only by two soldiers shaving their faces at the standing basins. The bathhouse was Skyhold's hidden gem, Dorian would maintain to anyone who cared to listen; the Inquisitor had made particular effort to create a space that was functional and kept up to a high standard, keenly aware of what the washing facilities could do for morale. Various tubs were set near the walls, each with a basic but functional tap set into the wall above it. One of these he knew to have runes set into it, something of Dagna's attempt at creating hot water straight from the tap, but after a mild scalding incident and general wariness, the plan to infuse fire runes throughout the bathhouse had been put on hold. It seemed a good idea in principle, after all, many non-mages used weapons infused with runes with no ill-effect, but the distrust of magic lingered. A pity, as the large spring-fed sunken bath in the centre of the room would be a delight if heated, but as it stood, the frigid pool saw little use. At least it looked good in the torch light, a shimmering pool of water made dark by the stone.

Few noble houses in Tevinter had clever dwarven rune-infused plumbing; what would be the point, when slaves could be used to draw hot baths manually? Dorian wrinkled his nose at the thought and the associated memories that came with it of his complicity.

He scoped out one of the larger metal tubs in a far corner and headed that way. He set down the supplies he'd brought, put the stop over the drain and turned the tap to begin filling it with icy water. There were several fires set into the walls, and kettles nearby to heat water, but with his magic, he had no need of it. Instead, he traced a glyph on the floor in the gap between stone and metal, long familiar with the intensity required for a pleasant temperature. It would be a constant drain on his mana to maintain, but with nothing else to take his focus, it was a minimal effort. He considered two small bottles between his hands, decided on one, and tipped half the contents of it into the water where it swirled under the tap. Steam rose off the surface, the glyph doing its work. The oil was heady and fragrant, a champak oil all the way from Par Vollen, hard to get hold of and expensive. But it was a scent that he knew the Iron Bull's liked, one that brought on the vague comfort of nostalgia, so he thought nothing of the expense.

A while after he'd turned off the taps and long after the two soldiers had left, Bull graced the bathhouse with his presence. He crossed the room, boots clacking on the stone, and Dorian took the opportunity to study the man's gait, to see whether his knee was giving him issue. It didn't appear so, and he was glad for it.

“So? Are they spies?”

Bull waved his hand dismissively, using the other to unwind his eye patch from where it was secured around his horn. “Nah. Just stupid, lucky, and brave Tal-Vashoth.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Bull flashed him a smile as he began to unhook his harness. “Stupid, for freeing a saarebas, lucky they got away with it, and brave for the whole damn thing.”

“Tell me?”

“Long story short,” Bull said as he bent to take off his leg brace and unbuckle his boots, “is that the Tama was assigned to a karataam with the elf in it. The elf got mouthy, so they sewed up her lips.” Bull straightened, undoing his belt as Dorian grimaced. “Apparently the stitching just wouldn't hold, she'd freeze them and the thread would break easily, that's why she's all scarred. They cut out her voice after that. It's more resource-effective in the long run to cut off the voice at the neck and have the saarebas out of action for a few weeks, but the surgery can have side effects and lip-sewing is easier.”

Dorian suppressed a shudder at the thought of what mages under the Qun faced, how even the worst circle in Ferelden paled by comparison. “If she was such trouble, why not just kill her? Mages are expendable under the Qun, right?”

“Expendable isn't the right word, mages are rare so they're preserved as much as possible as a resources, but they're also the only people under the Qun who're killed as a matter of course if don't fill their role,” Bull explained, shimmying out of his blooded, ugly, huge trousers. “From what they said, their karataam was some kind of test run. The Arishok was sent on a mission to Ferelden during the last blight, apparently he met a mage that impressed him. Decided to have some Avaarads test new magic. That's why the elf is all-” Bull wiggles his fingers in Dorian's general direction, indicating his general apprehension to unfamiliar magic.

Dorian gestured towards the tub, and Iron Bull stepped into the steaming water, making a pleased sound as he carefully lowered himself. Dorian had judged well, both by choosing a large, deep bath and by filling it to just the right height to account for Bull's mass. He pulled up a nearby wooden stool and perched himself on it, resting his forearm along the rolled metal rim of the bath as Bull settled back.

“The elf was days away from getting qamek'd when the other two decided they couldn't let it happen. Other one was the karataam healer, and they ran. That was over a year ago, they reckon. Now they're Tal-Vashoth, in love, and probably going to be the subject of Varric's next book.”

Dorian laughed. “I'm glad they're not spies. I spoke with Issala some, you'd like her.”

He reached for the cloth and soap he'd brought with him, dunked them both into the warm water and began to work up a lather.

“Come here,” he muttered, reaching for Bull's face with the soapy cloth.

Bull cast his eyes around at the supplies. “No shaving cream?”

“I thought perhaps you could keep this,” he gestured to all of him, “a day or so.”

“Oh, really?”

“I'll need you clean, but I certainly don't mind you atypically hairy.”

As Bull began to scrub at his fingers with a scrubbing brush, Dorian eased the metal ring off the end of Bull's beard braid, and gently undid it with his fingers. The hair was soft and slightly wiry, springing up now it was free from the braid. He set to work soaping up the man's beard, nudging the stool along to get a better angle. It was a task he could have easily done for himself, but after so long without seeing him, he wanted to indulge every sort of touching. Dorian began to work the soap upwards around the back of his head, amongst the head of curls at his nape. He picked at a coil of jet black hair, stretching it out to its full length, a good few inches. He let it go and it sprang back, then smoothed soap over the spot, creating a lather. The fact that Bull had curls was more surprising than the length, although he should have perhaps assumed since he was intimately familiar with the texture of the man's pubic hair. He wondered if it could be braided into tiny tight plaits like Vivienne had given to Cadash at her temples, wondered whether he could learn the technique and sit with Bull's head in his lap, spending an evening plaiting and weaving each coil of hair into place.

“What about these?” Bull crooked a finger, indicating his claws.

“Yes.” Dorian sniffed, ignoring the slight warm feeling at his cheeks that had nothing to do with the steam rising from the tub.

“'Yes' I'm keeping them?” Bull grinned, looking sideways at him.

“We'll cut the left. It's been far too long since I had your talented fingers inside me, and I've no desire to be clawed from the inside. The right, however... just a day. If you want.”

“Sure thing. Never really let them grow before now.” His eye fluttered shut as Dorian pressed his fingers firmly against his scalp. “We were really roughing it out there. Krem's hair is a mess, and Rocky's beard is immense.”

“But no problems, aside from that bloody great gash on your arm?”

“It's just a flesh wound.” Bull grunted as Dorian tugged on his ear, pushing soap into the creases. “It'll scar nice.”

“I'm sure it will,” Dorian said indulgently, tugging on a horn to manoeuvre his head around so he could clean his other ear.

“You should get in this tub with me.”

“Patience.” He was still smiling, despite the admonishing tone.

“Nah, not for that, we'll get to that.” Bull caught his gaze. “Let me pamper you too. I'll wash your hair.”

He chuckled. “Maker, you're sweet sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?”

“I spent most of the day on myself. You're the one who just came back from a wyvern hunt. Close your eye.”

Bull did as told, closing his eye without hesitation. Dorian grabbed the jug he'd brought with him and filled it, and began to pour it steadily over Bull's head, washing the soap out of his hair.

“If you plan on keeping the hair any longer we should really oil it. It'll dry out otherwise.”

“Don't worry about it,” Bull told him, soapy water spluttering over his lips. “I'll shave it in a few days. I might look more handsome but I can't have someone grab my mop of hair in a fight.”

“You're always handsome,” Dorian chided playfully, looking at his qunari lover covered in a head and beard of soap lather.

Dorian refilled the jug so he could rinse the man's beard, watching as Bull pushed his jaw into the pressure of his fingers, eyes still closed. To not be having to tend to more serious concerns after hunting territorial highly venomous creatures was both objectively remarkable yet almost ordinary when it came to the Iron Bull.

“Time to soap up the rest of you.”

Bull peeked his eye open. “The real fun part.”

“You'll have to help, there's so much of you to cover I'll be here all night if I do it alone.”

If not for the patches of mud and wyvern viscera smeared on Bull's skin, Dorian would have been disappointed to have to cleanse him off his heady scent. He smelt strongly of sweat and earth, tart and rich but not unpleasant, perhaps a day or two's worth of physical exertion and adventure. It was so inviting after more than four months without it, and as he worked a soapy cloth around one bicep, he wondered if he had ever truly found the smell unpleasant, or just unfamiliar and an easy jab to take in the days where the only way he knew how to start a conversation with the Bull was to try and goad him into honouring their culture's long-standing animosity.

When he reached down to his gathered supplies again, Bull strained to look over the side of the tub at the tools and products.

“You brought the whole salon, huh?”

Dorian snapped his silverite edged scissors at him, then handed over a toothbrush and a small tin of dentifrice. “You might like to pretend you're a big tough brute, but I know you like these comforts as much as I do. May I remind you how insufferable you were that time you dropped your toothbrush in a river?”

“Qunari don't look very scary with missing teeth,” he said in his defence, dabbing the damp bristles into the tin of powder. “If I'm going to lose them, I want a good story to go along with it.”

Dorian took back the tin as he rolled his eyes, but a fondness simmered in his chest. To think that of all the things to find in common with a former Ben-Hasrath agent, oral hygiene would be one of them.

“Give me your hand.” Dorian waved the scissors towards himself. “Left.”

“You'll blunt them,” Bull said around the toothbrush, though he reached his left hand across towards Dorian, who grabbed his thumb first and lifted it to inspect the claw growing from the end.

“I will not.”

He he wasn't sure, though. Bull's nail were much thicker than his, and experimental touches proved them stiff and hard with little give. He snipped at the tip experimentally, and while it cut, it did not sever it. It was workable, however, so he set about trimming the claw down gradually, cutting away slivers and slices and letting them fall into the bath. He did the same for the other two intact fingers on the hand, hearing the toothbrush clatter to the floor beside the tub part way through. When he'd finished his clipping and returned his nails to some semblance of their normal state his glanced up to see Bull watching him, easy and interested.

“First time you've done this. S'nice.”

“Well, I want to make a proper job of it,” Dorian said dismissively as he reached for the file he'd brought to smooth out the nails. It was an unfair comment really, when Iron Bull's nails were always kept clipped and worked smooth, never sharp or jagged against his skin. Really, it was just nice to have Bull in one piece, uninjured and finally present again. This was still easier than vocalising the breadth and depth of emotions he'd felt in the months apart, and the torrent of them now that threatened to drown him.

Bull waggled the fingers with intact claws. “You still want to keep the other hand?”

“Yes, so long as you're gentle.”

“Of course, unless you ask for something else. Are we done? The water's getting cold.”

Sure enough, Dorian could feel the heating glyph taking more of his mana to sustain. With a little concentration, it flickered with renewed life. “Almost. I saved the best until last.”

“You going to join me?”

“Better.”

“What could possibly be better- oh.”

Dorian had just brought a squat glass jar into view, gold lid inlaid with a disc of shimmering dragonbone. It was a ridiculously rare and ludicrously expensive horn balm from Orlais, rumoured to have been originally created as a gift for the Arishok of the Qun. The Iron Bull had spent a cold night in a tent in the Emprise telling Dorian about it, an explanation made long-winded by sheer excitement it seemed, listing the expensive rumoured ingredients such as powered dragonbone, Afsaana beeswax, and the oil of a rare orchid.

“How did you get that?”

“I sent a letter to Vivenne months ago mentioning it. She was here when I returned from the Hinterlands, and now I owe her a favour.”

Bull chuckled. “Sounds ominous.”

“She said I'd enjoy it, actually, but we'll see.” He unscrewed the cap and gave the gold-ish balm an experimental sniff. “At least for the price of it, they make it smell nice.” He offered the tin towards the qunari, who inhaled deeply.

“My horns aren't looking great,” Bull said, eye following Dorian's hand as he scooped a little of the balm onto his middle finger. He closed the jar and rubbed the balm between his hands.

“Bring your head over here then,” Dorian said, and Bull did so without arguing, moving his torso so he could angle his head towards Dorian, giving him easy access to both his horns. He started at the base and wound his hands in tandem up his horns, twisting around them to coat the entire surface with a thin layer of balm. Now that he was looking, he could see the skin surrounding the base of his horns was dry and flaking, and he'd probably itched it without anyone there who would chide him for it. He worked his hands back down and then used his thumbs to turn small circles over where skin and horn met, firm over the tender flesh, which got a low groan from Bull.

“We need to source you a daily balm,” Dorian said, mild annoyance catching his voice. There was no need for Bull's head to get into such a state. “This stuff won't last a month if you use it every day. We need to put in a requisition order, I'm sure it can't be that hard to work out what ingredients would make a passable salve for your most iconic feature.”

“I'll survive. The Inquisition still has more important things to puts its resources towards.”

“There's at least ten qunari living at Skyhold, with the new additions.” Dorian considered grabbing the man's horns and pulling his face up just so he could give him a particular look, but resisted such temptation. “It would no longer be a personal request, but a communal one.”

Bull just hummed an acknowledgement as Dorian continued to work the balm around the sensitive base of his horns. He knew that the man would probably neglect to make such an order, and he understood that. He was still reluctant to waste the Inquisition's resources on trifling requests, but the personal concerns of others seemed easier to justify than his own.

“We're all done,” he said finally, releasing his mana's power over the fire glyph. It spluttered a moment, then faded into nothing but a wisp of magic he could feel but not see.

Bull raised his head, his face full of affection. _Maker_ , Dorian had missed being looked at like that. It was not hard to make himself the centre of someone's attention, had done many a time in his weeks back at Skyhold, made people watch and stare; sat just so on his stool that his spine curved invitingly, held his glass in a certain manner to show off supple wrists and long, elegant fingers, and been rewarded with people's focus on him. All those times were poor imitations of this, none of them like having Bull's gaze on him, so intense and so tender.

The warmth of affection didn't lessen even as Bull climbed gracelessly out of the tub, all seven foot and spare of him, dripping wet and unshaven, claws still intact on his right hand.

“Can I take you to bed now?”

“Of course.” Dorian tossed a towel at him as he gathered up his supplies. “I set a fire in your grate this evening, it should still be warm.”

“Thoughtful.” Bull's voice was full of amusement as he lifted a leg to brace it against the edge of the vacated tub to dry between his legs in the most distracting manner.

“Entirely self-serving.” Dorian crossed the space to lift his hands and gathered Bull's beard up to braid it again, damp hair easy to knit together and secure with the metal clasp.. “I've no desire to catch my death in your bed. The deaths I desire are little and much, much more fun.”

The Iron Bull's laugh rumbled up from his chest, and Dorian felt the sound mirrored in his own, a flare of the permanent warmth that seemed to live there when Bull was near. Briefly, it worried him, that such a nebulous arrangement could inspire a feeling he knew he'd longed his entire for, but he pushed the worry aside. Tonight was for indulging the pure unashamed joy of reunion, not thinking beyond a future of tangle of sheets and fingers pressed in all the right places.

**"T** **here must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.” - Sylvia Plath**


	4. A Warm Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian realises that the word is not a name, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features butchered Latin as Tevene, translations at the bottom, but the inference should be understandable without it.

“ **There's more to the erotic life than explicitness.” - Jess C. Scott**

The Iron Bull's room was faintly warm from the lingering fire in the hearth, and as he went to put more logs on it Dorian stashed his supplies in the top draw of the dresser, that was already full of his things, despite that he hadn't officially claimed it as his own yet. With a pointed fingertip he lit several candles on the wooden top of the dresser, heat and wax run-off contained in a mix-match variety of holders: a brass candle holder with a chantry mark, a delicate half-sphere of blue-green painted glass, a chunk of wood cut from a sturdy tree, its natural lines and charred circles from burning resins marring the surface, even a chipped teacup held a stocky jasmine-scented candle. After a moment to appreciate the collection that had once seemed so strange but now seemed so like the man who had put them together, he lit several sticks of fragrant incense, for a night of indulges he intended to continue.

“I missed you,” he confessed to the room, still facing the dresser as he set the last of the incense into the makeshift holder instead of addressing the person the sentiment was really for. He felt Bull's presence at his back and melted into the contact as the man wrapped his arms around his chest to begin undoing the buckles of his outfit.

“I missed you too.” Bull kissed the side of his head, voice low and throaty. Such big hands were remarkably deft when it came to undressing him, but that likely had something to do with practice. “Krem isn't half as good a cuddler as you.”

Dorian hummed. “It's nice to know I'm appreciated for something.”

“For many things.” Bull pushed his robe away from his shoulders and kissed his neck. Dorian arched, allowing him easier access to the taught flesh of his throat as he was efficiently divested of his clothing. Bull caught his chin between thumb and forefinger and angled his face where he needed it to press their lips together, and Dorian responded eagerly, with a content sigh, and lips parted in invitation. Bull deepened the kiss, still holding his chin while his other hand pushed his breeches off his hips.

“No underthings?” he muttered against Dorian's mouth, clawed fingers caressing the bare skin of his hip, nails scraping lightly, carefully, as Dorian wiggled out of his leggings.

“I was planning ahead. You're wearing too many clothes.” Bull was only in his boots and ridiculous trousers, having slung them back on to get from the bathhouse to his room, but Dorian's point was valid. The fragrance of the burning incense filled the room as Dorian moved away, crawling onto Bull's bed and planting himself amongst the pillows. He pushed a few of the more decorative ones off onto the floor as Bull toed off his boots and removed his pants, leaving them pooled on the floor with his own clothes.

The Bull's expression was soft as he climbed onto the bed with him, but there was still a hunger there. Dorian parted his legs and Bull fit between them, pressing their bodies together. Their mouths met again and the kiss was needy, re-familiarising themselves with each other, how their rhythm worked together. The unshaven hair on Bull's face was new, and Dorian couldn't help going to frame his cheeks with his hands, exploring the texture of it under his palms.

After a moment Bull pulled back, resting back on his knees between Dorian's, and he looked at him with such reverent warmth that his protest at the cessation of kissing died in his throat. _Maker_. He let his hands fall above his head amongst the pillows, and waited to see what Bull had in mind. Slowly, with just his pointer finger, Bull ran his claw along Dorian's thigh. It looked formidable, but the tip was rounded, and felt solid against his skin but not sharp. Bull looked at him for something, and Dorian smiled, nodding lazily. He wasn't afraid of of The Iron Bull.

Bull lifted his hand and began at Dorian's collarbone instead, trailing his nail downwards, around his nipple and then over his stomach, giving the hardening cock resting on his belly a wide berth. He repeated the path with two clawed fingers, a little more firmly, and Dorian arched minutely into it. With three claws he pulled them along Dorian's side, too firm to tickle, but the sensation still made him jolt a little.

Bull touched the tips of his claws against his sternum. “You're beautiful, Dorian.”

Dorian caught his bottom lip with his teeth, gazing up at the man from under heavily lidded eyes. He knew it, didn't doubt it, but something about the way Bull said it still sent a thrill through him like it was the first time he'd been told.

Bull dragged every claw of his hand slowly down the middle of Dorian's torso, hard enough to leave pale lines in their wake. He groaned and pushed up into the contact, his cock twitching against his belly with a pulse of precum.

“You like a bit of savagery, huh?” Bull teased as he traced a claw around Dorian's navel.

“It's not about you being _savage_ ,” Dorian huffed, straining his hips upwards. It had been a long time since he'd thought of Bull in that way, and thinking about the times he had still made him feel ashamed enough that he rarely used such a word to describe him even in good-natured jest. “Just rugged. It's rather pleasing to think of you out in the wilds, unshaven and sore from battle, settling in your tent and thinking about me.”

A soft growl rumbled in Bull's chest, and he dug his claws into the muscle between navel and groin. Dorian spread his legs wider apart, and made a deliberate show of biting his lower lip again.

“Did you think of me, Bull? Did you touch yourself thinking of me while your Chargers slept nearby?”

Bull narrowed his eye, the brow over his missing one moving in tandem even without function, his grin lazy and full of promise. He ran a claw around Dorian's right nipple, coaxing it hard.

“The nights were cold, and you were a very warm thought.”

Dorian curled his fingers in the pillows by his head, and let out a breath of a laugh as the words made his head swim and his cock throb. It had been too long.

Bull's attention dropped back to Dorian's chest, claws leaving fleeting white lines in their wake as he dragged one over his other nipple.

“Were you remembering previous times, or was I the star of a fantasy?”

“Depends on the night,” Bull said, and then ran the curved edge of a claw ever so lightly up the length of Dorian's cock. He panted a breath, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. “I thought about the first night we fucked in a tent.”

Dorian remembered it, his body did too, and he kept his eyes closed a moment longer. It had been months after they'd begun having sex, but Dorian had never let anything happen on the road in a tent, as much as he'd been sorely tempted so many times.

“The night I gave up caring who heard us?” He opened his eyes. Bull was looking at him fondly as he trailed the smooth part of his nails in tortuously slow patterns over his twitching cock.

“If I remember right, you took my fingers in your mouth to stop anyone overhearing us.” Dorian's breath caught, both at the memory of biting down firmly on those fingers, and at the insinuation that Bull knew what a pivotal night that had been in their whole affair. “I know why it took so many nights of us lying there, half-hard and needy for you to jump.”

He narrowed his eyes in challenge. “And why is that?”

“If you'd fucked me in our tent before that, you wouldn't have anywhere to leave to afterwards.” He said it gently, as an observation, no judgement in his tone. “You never stayed after coming to my room before that. After, you did.”

“Well-” Dorian huffed, feeling heat rise in his cheeks at having been caught out. It should not have been a surprise by now that the Iron Bull could have figured such a thing out, but it still left him embarrassed.

“I'm glad you like being here with me,” Bull said, and it was not the comment Dorian had expected.

“Of course I do.” _It's safe here_ , his mind supplied as a silent addition. Bull eased himself forward so he could kiss him, and Dorian pressed both of his palms against the qunari's neck, fingers pressing against firm tendons as he parted his lips and coaxed Bull into deepening the kiss. Bull kissed with a practised, adaptable mouth, much like the way he conducted himself in all other aspects of intimacy. Lingering, eager kisses were what he craved, and Bull delivered in a way that left Dorian breathless.

When he moved back again Dorian let him go only after he'd had to chance to nibble on his scarred lower lip, licking over the spot where his teeth had nipped. He pressed his hips closer, set his knees wider on the bed, and pushed his hard cock up alongside Dorian's. He groaned at the weight of it, and had to reach down and run his fingers along the top side, unable to resist after so long only being able to imagine it. Dorian wasn't small, proportionate to him being tall and well-built, but Bull was something else entirely. Huge, hard and heavy against him, the red-purple head fading into dark grey, with faint blueish lines of prominent veins that left his cock looking as rugged as the rest of the terrain of his body. He was the largest man he'd ever been with, the largest he'd seen in the flesh, but somehow whenever he considered his size he was always reminded of the little sex shop in Minrathos where'd he'd seen wooden dildos twice Bull's dimensions. He pushed the thought aside before it could make him laugh, and shifted his lips, rubbing his cock along Bull's.

Iron Bull moved his pelvis, pulling his cock back then sliding forward again, the bulk of it keeping it on course, sliding along Dorian's own flesh. He ran his claws along Dorian's thigh as he did, tracing circles and pressing the ends in then easing the pressure off, as if testing for the meatiest part of his flesh to dig into.

“I almost forgot how perfect you look like this,” Bull told him as he frotted against him. “When you're relaxed and ready. You smell so good when you want to fuck.”

Dorian couldn't help the reflex deep inhale through his nose, registering the smell of the incense that burned and the oil and soap Bull had been cleaned with, and the underlying note that was Bull's own scent.

Dorian lifted his hips wantonly. “Come on then. Fuck me.”

Bull growled lowly his assent. He kept the oil unashamedly on the night stand, but at least since they'd been together it was a good quality unobtrusive-smelling one in an attractive flat-based crystal phial, Bull's accommodation for his decadent tastes even extending to sexual aids. The top was glass that masked a cork, and Bull pulled it off with a satisfying pop. He dripped oil over the tip of the forefinger of his left hand, and shuffled back to put some space between them. Dorian spread his legs wider, bending at the knee, and resting his calves on Bull's thighs, watching him looking down at him.

He pressed the slick finger against his perineum and Dorian hummed his approval. The touch was barely there, skimming lightly over the sensitive skin and down towards his entrance, circling lightly, catching all the nerves there.

“If I'd been more thoughtful when I groomed earlier,” Dorian said, hand flexing amongst the pillows again, “I could have opened myself up ready for your homecoming. You could have taken me right away.”

“That sounds so hot.” Bull a slick finger steadily inside Dorian, who groaned and dug his heels into his thigh. “But after all this time, I want to open you up like this. I'll make it so good, I promise.”

Bull's finger was thick, and long enough that he missed the tight bundle of nerves that ached for attention and instead pressed the calloused pad to his inner wall, stroking back and forth a little way. It was enough to have Dorian moaning and flexing his hips, but never moved low enough to catch his prostate. It was mean and deliberate and utterly delicious, and Dorian practically thrummed with how much he had missed those skilled hands.

Bull pressed his thumb against his perineum, putting pressure on his prostate from the outside. “You're even more beautiful than I remembered when I was pulling myself off.”

“How charming,” Dorian huffed. Bull was undeterred.

“Better than any fantasy. Nothing like watching you come apart.”

“I aim to please.” His voice was breathy as Bull continued to thrust his finger slowly into him. It had been so strange and wild at first to have fingers so deep, pressing against flesh that had never known that touch. Bull eased his finger back, and gave one teasing flick of the pad of the digit over his prostate, then deliberately caught it on the ring of muscle as he pulled out, making Dorian swear under his breath.

Bull coated two fingers and pressed them back against his hole, teasing pressure against him. Dorian tried to push down onto the fingers and Bull let him, chuckling as he slid two fingers into him. The stretch was delicious, and Dorian's cock gurgled out another drip of precum onto the small puddle forming on his belly.

“Such a tight little hole. Going to have to get you used to taking me again. I'll make you feel so good.”

Those two fingers together could rival most cocks Dorian had taken, and the thought coupled with the sensation made him groan low and long. Bull eased his fingers around the ring of his entrance, scissoring and pulling and stretching the muscle. When he slid them in further, he curled them and brushed right on the tight bundle of nerves within Dorian, who whined and lifted his legs, grabbing behind his knees and holding himself to give Bull even more room to work him open.

“Crap,” Bull said on a laughed.

“What?”

“We should've done claws on the other hand; how am I going to get another finger in?” To make his point, he pressed the two half fingers of his hand against Dorian's inner thigh.

“Ah. Well,” Dorian huffed out, the words forming slowly through the haze of pleasure thanks to those wicked fingers, “you can stretch me the rest of the way open with your cock, I do so like it when you do that.”

Bull growled, and curled his fingers into Dorian to rub his prostate firmly, shuddering gasps filling the space between them.

“Is that what you want, to be stretched around me? You think you can take it, after this time?”

“Yes!” He moaned, another rub against that spot inside him. “Bull, yes.”

He continued to stretch him open though, concentrating on the tight ring of muscle, scissoring his fingers and coaxing his body to loosen. Eventually Bull removed his fingers carefully, and uncorked the phial of oil again. He poured some onto his palm and set the bottle aside, while Dorian dropped his legs down and wide so he could see him slicking his huge cock. Even foregoing more fingers to prepare him, there was eagerness instead of apprehension, as Bull had been the most considerate lover he'd ever had, and all previous experience calmed any nerves.

He pressed the blunt head of his cock against Dorian's slick hole, pressing forward minutely and pulling back, teasing him over and over. Dorian moaned and let him without complaint, allowing his body to thrum with desire. With a firm push the large, smooth crown breeched him, and Dorian's breath hitched in his chest at the intensity of that feeling, of being able to feel his body take the tip and the subtle flare of the glans and then his hole pull tight just past the rim, clamping on Bull's shaft.

“Quod valde magnus est,” he mumbled, his mother tongue flowing with the overwhelming sensation of the first stretch.

Bull echoed the Tevene. “Pulcher.” He leant his body over Dorian, arm braced beside his head as the other slotted under his knee to hold his leg up, claws biting deliciously into his soft flesh. Dorian smiled at him, wide and easy as he reached up to grab Bull's horns and tug his face down to a level where he could kiss him.

“Te desiderabam.” It was a reiteration in his native language, said between kisses.

“I'm here now.” Bull pushed his cock forward slowly, and Dorian groaned at the steady stretch. “I've got you. It's hot when I get you sounding like a proper 'Vint on my cock.”

The Iron Bull was a giant, massive in scale compared to Dorian, but he was so patient and gentle. He kissed him softly, mouth open and eager as his hips worked forwards and backwards in tiny strokes, pushing forwards a little more each time, letting Dorian's body get used to being stretched so full. Even at such a considerate pace, it still left Dorian breathless and panting. He wouldn't have called it anything like pain, but accommodating his cock still felt like an invasion, albeit an entirely welcome one. Every part of him felt raw and exposed, laid out for Bull to do whatever he wanted to him, which was always to make his nerves sing and his body ache and his mind slip.

Finally, after what seemed an age of intense friction, Dorian could feel Bull's thigh pressed against him, his huge balls resting on his backside, and he curled the leg Bull wasn't holding around the man's middle. His neglected cock had smeared the precum pooled on his belly, but he left himself to ache, letting it add to the sensation of being fucked so completely. Bull kissed along his jaw to his ear, where he sucked on one pierced lobe.

“You're so tight and perfect, Dorian,” he told him. “You feel so good on my cock. It's like I was made to fill you up, to make you feel like this.”

Dorian whined and wrapped his arms around Bull's neck, the sentiment making his whole body shudder with need. Distantly, deliriously, he wanted it to be true, he wanted the Maker or the Old Gods or something else he didn't understand to have made The Iron Bull just for him, and made him just for the Bull. It was a stupid romantic thought he would never have allowed himself to entertain in a more lucid moment, but Bull was inside him and around him, kissing the apex of his throat and telling him in hushed words how perfect and good he was.

“Maker, you're huge, te obsecro, move.” He was too gone to purposefully keep to one language at a time, common and Tevene tumbled out past his lips. “I'm ready, I want it.”

“So perfect,” Bull mumbled, drawing his hips back slowly, then pushing forward again. It was a torturous slide, leaving Dorian feeling so empty each time he moved back, and so full as he bottomed out again each time. “So strong and pretty, I'm going to make you spill all over your belly just fucking you.”

Dorian panted needily, trying to push down as Bull pulled back. “Promise?”

Chuckling, Bull kissed down his neck into the hollow of his throat, his beard lighting up the skin it touched with a pleasant itch. He dragged his hips back, and pulled his claws along Dorian's thigh. “I promise. I'm going to make you feel so good, kadan.”

Something like recognition flickered in Dorian's mind, and then Bull pushed his cock home hard and his thoughts became a jumbled mess of registering sensation and pleasure. He groaned, seeking out Bull's mouth for a sloppy kiss of wet tongues and clicking teeth as Bull began to thrust in earnest. Every few strokes he would stop at his deepest, and Dorian could feel the weight of his balls resting against him, full and heavy and firm with his arousal.

Bull shifted onto his elbows, hands moving to support Dorian's head and neck, which closed the space between them and changed the angle of penetration in a way that left him gasping. His biceps were pushed against his chest as he clung to Bull's neck, fingers teasing at the curls of hair on the back of his skull, new and exciting as he pulled him in for another kiss. He hooked his ankles over the back of Bull's thighs to pull him close, to urge him to keep moving. He panted against his mouth as Bull scratched his claws lightly against Dorian's scalp, a shiver slipping down his spine and his neck exposed to Bull's mouth, tongue and teeth once again.

This was where he wanted to stay for the rest of his life. He wanted to feel stretched out and filled up and alive with sensation, from his fingertips discovering the Bull's usually shaved-away hair, his cock throbbing and dripping on his belly, his legs stretched around Bull's bulk, to his heels pressed against the hard muscles of his thighs. He desired and he was desired, and even if it had no name or designation he felt as if he were cherished in these moments. He wanted to come down from the high still wrapped in Bull's arms, under him and around him and _with_ him until time slipped away to nothing.

The pressure and friction was too incessant for it to last, and Dorian could feel himself climbing to his peak. Bull was lavishing kisses against his jaw and neck, hips snapping against him steadily, constant and deep and probably murder on his knee. Dorian eased his hands around the front of the man's neck, pushing him until he drew back and pressed their foreheads together instead. He was smiling, gaze intense and focused only on him, and beautifully wrecked.

“Bull,” he breathed, “harder. Harder, please.”

Bull's response was immediate, pace quickening, hips moving harder, pounding into his willing body. “I'll get you there. Going to make you spend on my cock.”

Dorian dipped his hands under Bull's arms and wrapped them around his back, clinging to him as he pounded him into the mattress, both breathing hard against the other, the fight to last truly over. Dorian could feel his finish rushing forward, Bull's cock so huge it rubbed a constant pressure on his prostate, so he dug his heels in as he felt his body begin to clamp down hard.

He groaned the man's name as orgasm hit, the rolling waves of sensation crashing against him, body rippling under the feeling and his release coating his stomach. “Bull!”

Bull didn't slow, but he was close too and his breath was ragged. “Don't stop,” Dorian urged as his body continued to spasm, “in me comple, I want it inside me.”

“Oh shit,” Bull panted, strokes becoming erratic. “Shit, I'm there, I'm there!”

Bull pressed flush against him, and Dorian could feel him throbbing deep inside, emptying into him. The knowledge that Bull was spending inside of him had electricity crackle at his fingertips, a sound and jolt that made Bull flinch and press his face into Dorian's neck, groaning and gone but still mindful of his horns. He willed down the magic surge, knowing Bull would be so pleased with himself for making it flare up unexpectedly, like he was still proud of being the cause of the now infamous curtain fire.

Bull sagged, sated, and Dorian smoothed his hand down his back, pressing in silent invitation. Bull understood, and gently rested his weight on Dorian, their hips flush together, mostly still hard cock buried in him, his face against his neck, both panting into the quiet of the room. From somewhere below was the muffled sound of the tavern, sing-songing and drunken revelry. It was quite possible their romp had been overheard, and they'd be teased for it the next day, but Dorian was beyond caring. He'd let the whole tavern watch to repeat what had just happened, again and again.

“I should go away more,” Bull murmured, and eased himself up enough to angle their mouths for a kiss, lips sliding luxuriously over each other.“Especially if that's the welcome back I get.”

Dorian laughed, enamoured at how he could feel Bull's words rumble in his chest. Bull made to ease out, but Dorian lifted his knees to brace on his hips and stop him, fingers digging into his back.

Dorian kissed the corner of his mouth. “Stay inside me a while.”

Bull growled with desire and resettled, pressing his hips firmly down and curling around him. He could feel his own body and Bull's cock throbbing within him, their heartbeats half a second out of sync. Bull's weight was grounding and firm, solid and sure. It made him feel small, but not the same small when facing down a giant hurlock in battle, instead something about Bull's massive size dwarfing his own made him feel incredibly safe.

They lay together in sticky heat or as long as they could bear, exchanging soft kisses and gentle touches as their bodies left the invulnerability of passion and began to ache. When Bull finally eased back onto his knees and pulled his softening cock out, Dorian's body gave one last squeeze. Bull watched the semen leak from him for a while, Dorian could feel it dripping down below his hole and onto the bed below, and under Bull's gaze he felt no shame at such a wanton display; nothing was quite as satisfying as knowing he was full of Bull's seed, and the gentle touch of the man's hands against his thighs and hips helped to bring him down slowly from the highs of their passion.

After a while Bull went to wet a cloth in the basin and cleaned them both; the top quilt had suffered worst, but they simply kicked it off the bed and settled in the clean sheets below, cool against their heated skin. Bull slipped his fingertips along Dorian's stomach as they lay on their backs next to each other, basking in the firelight and the heady smell of incense and sex.

Dorian smiled at the ceiling. “You kept your promise”.

“I wouldn't make it if I didn't intend to. You looked so perfect under me, kadan.”

The word was familiar to him, like it had been uttered in the middle of the sex, and now it had the opportunity to it settled warm in his chest. He breathed out slowly, trying to place what it was; it was so new, but so known. Allowing an action his body didn't understand, he lifted two fingers to his mouth and pressed them against his lips, then touched all the fingertips of the same hand to his chest, recalling Issala's gesture when they'd first met.

“That word,” he said, turning onto his side and against Bull's chest, studying him. “It's not a name, is it?”

“Hm?” Iron Bull turned his face towards him, hard angles all soft in the dim firelight.

“Those qunari we helped in the Hinterlands, one of them called the other kadan. She cried out with it when they were together again; I thought it was a name.” He'd tried his best to keep his voice casual, but it came out more breathily than he'd intended.

Bull was watching him with one good eye. “It's not a common word. But no, it's not a name, or what you'd consider names by Qun standards.”

He could almost have called the feeling in his chest dread, or hope. “What does it mean?”

Bull stilled, breath stopping for a few noticeable seconds as one good eye raked over his features, trying to get a read on him. He was unsure what the man expected to find, but he didn't look away. “My heart. Or, centre of the chest. A literal translation would be 'where the heart lies'.”

Dorian was aware of blinking a few times, and his heart seemed to move backwards in preparation for a great running leap he couldn't allow. He pushed himself up off Bull's chest, and huffed in a breath, willing the wild hope stirring within him to sleep again.

“What use is such a word under the Qun?” It seemed a harsher question in the air than it had in his mind, and he restrained his facial muscles before he could wince in anticipation of Bull's reaction to an unintended but unmissable barb. He was still looking at him, but the warmth of his features was muddied now with something sad.

“Even under the Qun, bonds are formed. It can be used for comrades, or friends.”

“Friends,” Dorian echoed, nodding a little and looking away then. He had no idea why his throat tightened, when he knew that that was what they were. He was happy for it, even, and he could not have realistically expected anything else.

They _were_ friends, friends who had sex a lot, but it had become more. At least, Dorian had thought so. He had never been brave enough to ask about it, to define it openly, but there had been moments that made him think it could be so something else. When he chose not to leave in the dim hours of the morning after sex, that meant something. Off-hand comments that indicated that whatever this was, both of them were maintaining purposefully monogamy, that meant something. Touches and glances and those moments when Dorian could easily believe he was everything to another person, those meant something. So many moments that left Dorian warm and happy in a way he'd never been before, if they didn't mean more, what were they? But Fawn had said herself, nothing like the vague glimmer of the possibility he held in his mind existed under the Qun, when what he wanted was more than platonic.

The Iron Bull let loose a breath that seemed to shudder out of him, mattress groaning as he shifted to sit up too, tangling the sheets between them. He still didn't speak, just watched Dorian, who had to look away from the soft intensity it. The Bull wasn't cruel, and Dorian considered he might be trying to find a way to make a confirmation of all that he already knew sting less; this was fun but shallow, grounding but static.

“Dorian,” he said gently, and the man could feel his gaze on him even if he made no move to make eye contact again. “What we have wouldn't happen under the Qun. Maybe what it was at the start, but not now. If we lived by the Qun it never would have become this. Or we'd be turned over to the re-educators.”

Something lurched in Dorian's stomach at what that implied, all the rumours and presumption about what Qun re-education entailed. That yet again he found himself in a position that something he wanted was deemed worthy of having his mind broken to fix it.

“We'd be considered selfish, and overstepping the very clear lines of how people are meant to... interact. That's how the Qun works, how it allows everyone a functional place, by the people in it working for everyone's benefit.”

“It's fine,” Dorian said, unbelieving of the words; they hardly sounded convincing coming out of his mouth. “It's just a word, I know it doesn't matter that-”

Bull cut him off, voice soft but firm. “Dorian, I'm not part of the Qun any more, I'm Tal-Vashoth. It means things change. It might just be a word, but it matters. I never thought I'd use it, but this Inquisition is full of things I never thought I'd do.”

Dorian didn't say anything into the silence that followed. He could tell without looking, whether because Bull was allowing it to show in his inflection, or because he couldn't hide it, that Bull was choosing his word very carefully.

“Even if you don't understand it, it's still the only word I have for what you are. You are a friend, and a comrade, amongst many. But you are something else. More. You are _kadan_.”

Dorian listened to the soft way the word came out of Bull's mouth, the same gentle reverence that the man said his name with. He thought about The Iron Bull forgoing a night of drunken revelry in celebration of the Chargers' wyvern killing to be alone with him, and about him being naked in a bathtub and letting Dorian dictate the details down to whether he shaved or cut his nails. He thought about month after month of great sex, unrestrained affection, and a wordless stability between them. Then he thought about the way Issala had desperately cried the word into her lover's knees, crippled under the weight of her relief. He thought about Cadash, who had called Bull 'surprising'. It was not a name.

It was an admission.

“Bull,” he whispered, lifting his chin to meet the man's eyes. He was not smiling any longer; Dorian felt a pang of guilt like a shard of glass in his ribs for calling doubt on the sincerity of the word, considering he still found his tongue uncooperative when he considered giving a name to the swelling feeling he carried within him. “Say it again?”

“Kadan,” Bull repeated, and Dorian almost missed the slight waver of his voice.

Dorian leaned into his space, tilting his head so he could find Bull's lips with his own, the only answer he knew how to give to something so precious. A man who had grown up with no way to conceptualise a romantic relationship considered him his _heart_ , and his first reaction had been to doubt his ability to even understand that. He cupped Bull's cheek, thumb brushing over the scarred skin, and hoped he hadn't ruined things.

“Tevinter and the Qun are different, but yet again we're of similar experience; what we are would never have been allowed for me in Tevinter, either, even if not for the same reasons and even if you weren't qunari. Getting re-educated and blood magic'd are close cousins, I would wager.”

This was a moment of importance, that much he knew, but he had never once thought that Bull would instigate it. He could never have imagined it would be Bull that would be the one to broach the concept of there being more for them than the nebulous status of friends who fucked.

“You are more than a friend to me, too.” He found himself laughing with the abject relief of voicing it. “Honestly, who knows how long you have been. Probably a good while before I understood it.”

When it came, Bull's smile was fond, genuine, and Dorian could feel his eyes prickle with relief.

“Does this change things? To be 'more' to each other?”

“If that's what you want.”

“I want to know what you want.” It was so typically Bull. Selfless and giving to a fault, but he could not bring himself to make a real discussion of it when Bull had been the one to cross that invisible line they'd been dancing on for months.

“I want to make you happy.” He said it as if it was the simplest thing in the world, and Dorian pressed his forehead against Bull's and took a long breath in through his nose.

“If I wanted to end this right now, you'd let me walk away, wouldn't you?”

“Of course I would. I'd only want you to be here if you wanted to.”

“That's not how it works.” His tone was easy, even, and he hoped the line of thought would not become something that would spoil the moment that had just passed between them. “How can you call me your _heart_ and still say you could let this end so easily?”

“Not easily, Dorian. I'm sorry if it's not how you know things, but if you didn't want this, then me wanting it is pointless and unfair. I wouldn't want you to feel pressured into being with me, if you didn't want to be.”

“There is nothing I do that isn't entirely under my own steam. Your Ben-Hasrath skills aren't so special that you could trick me into staying if I didn't want to. I want to be here, with you.”

“Then that's where I'll be. This is all new to me, anything like this.”

He sighed, and took Bull's face into his hands. “I know, I know.”

He looked at the scars on his face, at the curve of his brow and the unfamiliar beard growing on his jaw. There would be other days to get into the issues that lay under the surface, but he thought about his last night of drinking with Cadash, and her advice on seeking happiness. He couldn't expect Bull to re-examine his entire culture in one go.

“I'm sorry, I'm just as useless at this. It's new to me too.”

Bull smiled at him, warm and genuine. “We may as well be useless together, then.” _Together_. Dorian had to pull him close again for a kiss.

Bull eased him down onto the bed, slipped between his legs and pressed their bodies together, deepening the kiss. Dorian braced his hand on the back of his neck, keeping him close, as the other moved between them and he pressed his palm to the middle of Bull's chest, brown on grey. He could feel it beating when he pressed just right, strong and steady like the body that held it. The sex had ended, but the bliss remained, and Dorian had never known peace like it. He'd never hoped to be held in such a regard by anyone, he'd long stopped himself entertaining the idea, because the impossibility of it stung. The sting was subsiding these days, as impossible became something else.

“Kadan,” Bull murmured against his mouth, reverence in this tone.

“ **Two people making love, she once said, are like one drowned person resuscitating the other.” - Anatole Broyard**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more accurate latin help from [dragoneyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoneyes/pseuds/dragoneyes)
> 
> quod valde magnus est = "that feels very big"
> 
> pulcher = "beautiful"
> 
> "te desiderabam" = "i longed for you"/"i missed you"
> 
> "te obsecro, move" = "i pray you move"/"please move"
> 
> "in me comple" = "finish within my body"/"finish inside me"


End file.
